


Free Until They Cut Me Down

by newredshoes



Category: Band of Brothers, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, Gen, Mythology - Freeform, Original Characters - Freeform, WWII
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-23
Updated: 2010-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-06 14:24:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newredshoes/pseuds/newredshoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The summer of 1944 is a respite for the paratroopers of Easy Company. The unit has just returned to England from a month of combat in Normandy. Replacements fill the ranks, among them Private Dean Winchester. He left his own war on the home front, but attacks on the men of Easy prove that there's always something to hunt. Why are only Normandy vets being targeted? What's behind all the attacks? And why has Dean abandoned his little brother, his father and his work for the Airborne anyway?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2009 [Supernatural Crossover Big Bang Challenge](http://community.livejournal.com/sncross_bigbang/profile), originally posted 5/12/09.
> 
> [Art by **miss_seashelle**](http://newredshoes.livejournal.com/888979.html)

**October 5, 1944  
Nijmegen, Holland**

When Dean was eight, his dad took him on a walkabout through Cleveland County, Arkansas. It was the first time he'd been allowed to carry a shotgun, and he lugged that sawed-off all through that misty harvest moon night. The weird flatness of the dormant cotton fields ate up the horizon; every detail was crisp and intense to his eye. The last words his father spoke before they set out in their bare feet were "Tailypo could be anywhere. Stay sharp." Patrolling in Holland is a little bit like that.

Five men are out on Giddy Orland's detail. Lesniewski is on point, Giddy at his shoulder. Alley is in front of Dean and Liebgott is behind. Fields stretch out far to his right, long grasses knee-high all the way up to the edge of the dike. Somewhere in front of them is the German line. Gunfire crackles in the distance, out of range but near enough to raise hairs.

"How far down is that?" whispers Liebgott.

Alley grunts. "I'd call it two mile."

Lesniewski holds up a fist, and the patrol halts, crouching low. "Someone's on the other side," he says quietly. "Up at that crossroad." Dean adjusts his hold on his rifle. The rest of the patrol sits tight while Lesniewski crawls up the side of the dike on his elbows and peers over the edge.

Dean watches his breath plume in the chill air. The other thing he remembers about Cleveland County is that he and Dad never found that tailypo. Sam was asleep on Dean's bed when they got back, and all Pastor Jim said was "I told you, didn't I."

All eyes are on Lesniewski as he backs away and balances the helmet on the end of his rifle. He slowly lifts it up, the helmet wobbling like some parody of a puppet. "All quiet on the Western Front," Dean murmurs to Alley, who snorts.

Voices burble somewhere close by. Liebgott twists at the sound. "Giddy, you say something?"

A hail of bullets pours down from the other side of the dike. Lesniewski's helmet goes flying. "Grenade!" yells Lesniewski, scrabbling backward.

Dean looks up to see the potato masher on its long handle arcing right at him. Alley's in its way, so he shoves him, no thought to the move, just training. The grenade keeps coming, and somehow in that moment amid all the gunfire and shouting, there's no sound, just the tall grass brushing dry and stiff with frost at his knee.

 

   
**July 24, 1944  
Aldbourne, England**

Dean tried one more time to fix his tie as he hurried down the lane. He eyed the hospital building up ahead. "No, really," he said to the other private, "remind me again why we're doing this."

"Our duty to support our noncommissioned officers and fellow soldiers wounded in combat," said Babe Heffron, adjusting his hat to a jaunty angle over his impressively red hair. His Philadelphia accent lent no gravity to the pronouncement. "And the dames."

Dean scoffed. "You do know they call them 'nurses' around here."

"That may be so," said Babe, "but I got it on good authority that this one in particular definitely qualifies as a dame."

"She have a name, this hot piece of work?"

He shrugged. "Gert, Gladys, Greta. I dunno, didn't really hear that part."

"Gert. Right." Dean tucked his tie under his olive dress jacket. "Look, you want to chase skirts, fine, I totally support that. It's me you're talking to, all right? But that's what the pub is for. This?" He picked at his lapel. "This is all dressed up and going nowhere. Babe, the sad truth is that nurses are only pretty in pinup shoots."

"You're a goddamn cynic, Winchester, you know that?" He shook his head, his pace unflagging. "I'm disappointed in you. These women give our boys their all. Don't you think it's our turn to thank them?"

"Okay." He held up both hands. "Okay. This was your idea. If it works, you get all the credit. But we're still the ones who are both going to look like brown-nosing replacements."

Babe grinned. "I think Sergeant Grant will appreciate that we took the initiative."

"Babe, he's supposed to be catatonic."

"Where'd you hear that from?" He shook his head. "Whatever the hell that means. Catatonic or not, I think this is gonna be good for morale." He clapped Dean on the shoulder and pulled open the hospital's front door.

Dean sighed as he slipped his hat off and tucked it under his belt. "I hate optimists."

The visitation officer directed them to a wing in a far corner of the building. The stink of blood, bedpans and cleaning fluid wafted by as they made their way through the halls. Dean glanced into other wards as they passed. Men inhabited the rows of beds in all possible states of wholeness. He clenched his jaw and kept his eyes trained forward. "Here we go," said Babe, his expression turning keen again, and pushed through the door.

Nurses patrolled the middle aisle of the ward, their shoes sensible and their stockings sturdy. Dean shot Babe a look of triumphant skepticism, which Babe steadfastly ignored. Sergeant Grant's bed was at the back of the room. The men Dean and Babe passed were in poor shape, wrapped in blankets and bandages and casts, but Grant was sitting up and playing cards with another Easy soldier, the two of them smoking and trading jokes.

"Brown-nosing," Dean hissed as they neared the bed.

"It's just Bill," Babe whispered back. "I got this covered."

Chuck Grant had a face like a silent movie star, with deep-set, perennially hooded eyes and a palpable air of easygoing steadiness. He glanced up from his cards, tucking them against his chest, then blinked, surprised. "Hey boys. What're you doing here?"

"Reasonable goddamn question," said Bill Guarnere, slinging one arm across the foot of the bed. Guarnere was a short, ferocious Italian from the same Philadelphia neighborhood as Babe; he'd already earned the nickname "Wild Bill" back in Normandy. He narrowed his eyes at the replacements. "Looks like a show of concern for their squad sergeant to me."

Grant smiled with half his mouth. "Is he right?"

"He's absolutely right," Babe said quickly. "We heard you was laid up bad over the weekend. Lieutenant Peacock ran the rifle range today and it just wasn't the same."

Grant chuckled. "Oh, now I'm touched. Nobody else wanted to come?"

"We thought if we told anybody there'd be too much of a crowd," said Dean, shooting Babe a warning glance. "It might upset the nurses."

"The nurses! Would you listen to this?" Guarnere whistled. "Those broads wouldn't scare if you pointed a railroad gun at 'em."

"I like them," said Grant, a touch dreamily. "I'm taking mine out to dinner when I get out of here."

Guarnere ground out his cigarette in an ashtray perched on the sheets. "I don't believe I'm saying this, but haven't you had enough funny business for one week?"

"This is different!" Grant insisted, setting his cards face down on his blanket.

"What happened?" Dean asked, unable to entirely bite back a smile.

Guarnere snorted. "I tell you what, they never covered this in the VD reels. So Chuck here — that's Sergeant Grant to you grunts, obviously — is out with us at the pub in Aldbourne."

"You're really going to tell this?" Grant interrupted.

"You were barely there," said Guarnere. "Anyway, here we all are at the Blue Boar. This ain't even London we're talking about, understand? He picks up this local skirt, and we don't see him for a while. Ain't no one surprised, this is Chuck we're talking about." Grant sighed, but Guarnere plowed on. "Little while later, some busboy comes and gets us, says Chuck's laid up out back. Man's cold as ice and he can't move. We thought he was dead meat. Docs can't come up with it. He's a medical mystery."

"Jesus," said Babe, looking startled.

"She was a beautiful broad, though." Grant settled back into his pillows. "Real easy on the eyes."

Dean knit his brow. "That doesn't sound normal."

Grant huffed a small laugh. "You're telling me. One minute she's all over me, the next I'm freezing, like I jumped naked or something." He shuddered. "Worst damn feeling. Glad I'm better now, though."

"You know where that sort of crap would never happen?" Guarnere said abruptly. "Philadelphia. Our broads don't spread shit like that around."

Grant winked. "Yeah, well, we can't all be from South Philly."

Guarnere turned to Dean. "It's Winchester, right? You from Kansas?"

"What?" said Grant. "They told me California."

"I was born in Kansas," Dean said. "I signed up out of Long Beach, though."

Guarnere eyed him. "You an Okie?"

Dean bit back a long-suffering sigh. "No, not actually."

"You'd think we'd get one." Guarnere grinned. "God knows there was enough of them. We got hayseeds, micks, polacks, guineas, a few yids, even that Harvard jackass in First Platoon, but not one goddamn Okie."

Grant shook his head. "Ignore him, Winchester, Bill gets fixations. Took him two damn years to believe Captain Winters wasn't a Quaker."

Babe stepped up. "He's got some great stories about living in a car, though—"

Dean elbowed him and forced a smile. "Yeah, no more favors, Babe."

"What's this?"

All four turned around: a nurse stood glaring at them, fists on her hips. Guarnere scrambled to his feet. Dean had always prided himself on his ability to function in the presence of gorgeous women, but this nurse just filled his head with radio static. Even with a scowl, she looked like art, with pale, clear skin, black hair, blue eyes and a high forehead. "You men are keeping Sergeant Grant and all these others from their recovery," she said stiffly, her accent local.

"We're here for morale—" began Babe, visibly shaken by the nurse's assets.

She cut him off with a frown. "He doesn't need morale, he needs rest. Visiting hours are over, you should all shoo and go back where you should be."

"Aw, Gladys, don't play hard to get," said Grant, spreading his hands to placate her. She rounded on him, pushing past Guarnere, who tried to maneuver between her and the wall.

"Are you a nurse, Sergeant Grant?"

He lay very still on his pillows. "No ma'am."

She reached for his wrist, leaning forward as she pressed her other hand to his forehead. "Then I am Nurse Morgan to you. Are we clear?"

"I think that's our cue," muttered Guarnere, shuffling into the aisle. "See you 'round, buddy."

"Bye, fellas," said Grant, his eyes slipping shut.

"See?" said Guarnere as they filed out of the ward. "Railroad guns."

"One hell of a dame, though," Babe enthused, looking first to Guarnere and then to Dean.

"Yeah, all right, it was worth coming," Dean allowed after a moment. Guarnere laughed.

"You scallywags. I shoulda known." He pulled a pack of Pall Malls from his pocket and tapped out a cigarette. "Let this be a lesson to you, though. Grant may have it good with the skirts, but they don't give no Purple Hearts for the clap."

Dean hung back and stayed quiet, letting them badger each other as they all headed back to barracks. A pair of black birds cawed at them from a roof; Dean didn't particularly appreciate the commentary.

 

   
**December 7, 1941  
Fayetteville, Tennessee**

Sam elbows Dean at precisely the right moment for the coffee in Dean's cup to slosh down his chin, and only by the grace of a quick save does Dean avoid getting it all down his front. "Hey," says Sam, the grin on his face replaced by something a bit more sheepish. "Oh geez, sorry about that."

"No, no," says Dean, his smile brittle as he sets the dripping mug on the paper placemat. "It's okay. You're not the one who has to drive us to Memphis by morning."

"It was an accident!"

He shakes his head and leans back in the booth. The coffee's not good enough or warm enough to fight over. "What were you going to say?"

"There's a Winchester close to here," says Sam, like all is forgiven. "We've never been to this one. It's only thirty miles away." He pushes the tattered road map across the table. Empty places swallow whole towns where holes have rubbed through bent corners. Dean squints at it.

"You're not still trying to visit every one, are you? Didn't you grow out of that already?"

Sam looks offended. "Who says I have to? Come on, Dean, we move around enough, at least one thing about it ought to be fun."

He reaches for his coffee again. "That's thirty miles in the wrong direction. Memphis by morning, buddy. Can't do it."

Sam slouches in his seat as only a dissatisfied twelve-year-old can. The door to the washroom opens. Dad comes limping back, sliding into the seat across from Dean. "I got you a burger," Dean says, propping his elbows on the table. Dad looks up at him, his face full of long nights and bruises, and nods.

"Dad, can we go to Winchester, Tennessee?" says Sam, picking up the edges of the map.

"No," says Dad. "We can't."

"Next time," says Dean. "That's a promise."

Outside the diner, tires skid to a halt. An engine cuts out, and headlights flood the windows. The bell above the entrance clatters as the door crashes against the wall. "They done it!" a man shouts, as two others hurry in behind him. "The Japs have bombed Pearl Harbor!"

"Where's that?" says Sam, sitting up on his knees to see over the booth.

The room erupts with movement and noise. People crowd the front counter and curse the Japanese. Hitler's name gets bandied around, and all of a sudden someone announces he'll give rides to the recruiting station. Within minutes the diner has cleared out, leaving only the waitress, the line cook and a few old men.

"Where is Pearl Harbor?" asks Sam again, unfurling the map to study the West Coast.

"I don't know," says Dean, his heart thumping. He looks to Dad again. His face, if possible, is more exhausted and tense than ever.

"I don't know either," he says. "But I guess we'll all find out." The waitress comes by and tops off Dean's coffee. Dad refuses when she offers him some. "I don't want you thinking about it," he says gruffly, eyeing the both of them once she leaves. "Especially you, Dean. You're sixteen and I need you here."

He drops his eyes, his mouth dry. "Yes sir." Sam goes back to scouring their map.

They make it to Memphis in their Ford Model A just as the newsies are out hawking papers. Sam is curled up alone in the back seat. Dad is meant to sleep too, but he spends the whole night staring straight ahead. Even from the car, Dean can see the bold print screaming across the headline: JAPAN ATTACKS U.S. IN PACIFIC!!!

The sidewalk in front of the neighborhood recruiting station swarms with young men. Dean slows down. Most of them can't be a year or two older than him.

"Turn here," says Dad, his voice scratchy. "Caleb said we'd find the guy down this way." Dean catches himself and steers down a side alley. He checks the sideview mirror one more time, but the crowd of volunteers has dipped out of sight.

 

   
**July 26, 1944  
Aldbourne, England**

"I don't believe it." Babe pressed his elbows together as another replacement squeezed past him. "You really wanna go sightseeing for the broad that laid out Sergeant Grant?"

Dean held out another mug of beer. "You're not curious?"

"To see fuckin' Typhoid Mary? No thanks." He took the drink and swiveled to size up the Blue Boar's crowd. "Not when there's other options. I swear to God!" he snapped as he was jostled again. "The rest of the division gets back and there ain't fuckin' room for nobody!"

"Moe, are you hearing this?" Joe Liebgott, a skinny man made of sharp angles and sardonic remarks, shook his head. He made no effort to keep his voice down. "Replacements. The things they put up with."

"And what thanks do they get?" drawled Moe Alley, smirking. "Shit, Lieb, army life is cruel."

"Aw fellas, you know I didn't mean Easy guys." Babe eased into a winning smile. "Now, those Fox and Dog boys, them I could do without."

"Oh, listen to that!" Liebgott crowed. "That river of yours in Philly as full of shit as you and Guarnere?"

"Hey!" He laughed. "Say what you want about me, but I'll go fist city for Philadelphia, you mark my words."

Dean nudged him. "That mean we're sticking around?

"I don't know," said Liebgott. "Weren't we here first?"

"You mean in the goddamn way?" A soldier shorter than Liebgott, cigarette dangling off his lip, shouldered his way between the two vets. "'Scuse me, fellas."

A fourth Easy man squeezed in after him, tall and black-haired, his expression vaguely nervous. When Alley caught sight of him, his face lit up. "Luz, where the hell did you dig this up?"

"Who, this stranger?" Luz turned around, still planted squarely between Babe and Dean. "I had to peel the guy off the goddamn church pews. Nearly had to punch him out to get him here."

"You're a son of a bitch, George," the man chuckled. The two replacements caught his attention. "Don't think we've met."

"Babe and Toto," said Liebgott, lighting up a smoke. "Second Platoon, no reason you should have."

"Yeah, it's Winchester, actually."

The man frowned at Liebgott. "Toto?"

"Born in Kansas," said Alley.

Dean held up his mug in a toast. "Glad to know everyone's keeping track."

"Well, there's no place like home." Luz gestured with his cigarette. "Hey, you keep him there, I'm gonna go get some beers. He's here to have a good time, all right?" He pushed through toward the bar without waiting for an answer.

Liebgott and Alley turned to the new guy. "So, you coming with us to London this weekend?" asked Liebgott.

He ignored the question, and looked past them to Babe and Dean. "Guys, it's good to meet you. I'm Gideon Orland."

"Jesus Christ, so fuckin' serious!" Liebgott lowered his voice. "Giddy, come to London. I got you a pass and everything."

Giddy glanced at Liebgott. "I dunno, guys, you don't think I'll get lost?"

Alley laughed. "Man has a point, Lieb."

Babe looked between them, smiling uncertainly. "What, no sense of direction?"

"Get a load of this," said Liebgott. His mouth twisted. "We drop on Normandy, right? It's a night drop, everyone's scattered, takes a while to get us all regrouped. Most people are missing two, three days tops. This guy?"

"Week and a half." Giddy gave a small smile and shrugged. "I got stuck in a tree."

Alley chuckled. "Yeah, you stick to that story, buddy."

"Eight miles from the drop zone!" he insisted.

Dean's focus latched onto something on the other side of the pub. "I'll be back," he announced, and broke away.

"Hey! Where you—" Babe waved him off. "Ah, forget it."

She wasn't tall, but she left a trail through the floor as soldiers parted like the Red Sea for her. She walked with purpose, shoulders pushed back, the nape of her neck pale beneath pinned black hair. Dean pressed a hand against his side, checking for the silver knife. The flask inside his jacket sloshed with holy water. Men didn't make way for him so easily, but he could see a route to head her off. He inserted himself between her and the exit and offered up his most charming smile.

"What's a pretty face like yours doing leaving so early?" The woman lifted her chin and looked him in the eye, jaw tight. Dean blinked. "Nurse Morgan?"

"Private," she said coolly. "What did you take me for?"

He stepped back, smoothing down his jacket. "Sorry. I was looking for someone else."

Nurse Morgan's lips thinned. "Well, take it from a married woman — no lady would want to be greeted as you just did. Mind yourself, Private."

He bowed his head, suitably contrite. She started toward the door. Dean straightened. "Hey, how is Sergeant Grant?"

She spared him a glance, one hand resting on the handle. "You'll have him back tomorrow."

He reached past her to hold the door open. "You figure out what made him sick?"

She let go of the worn knob and let him prop the door. "Some sort of ailment he picked up from a nightwalker, it seems."

"Right, I gathered that much. But it doesn't sound like the doctors were having any luck getting him better."

"Doctors are not gods. He got well perfectly fine under my care." She nodded at the exit. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I really must be going."

Dean stepped aside and watched her go before turning to the room. Something nasty was here, preying on Airborne soldiers. He stood surveying the floor. Babe had migrated over to the dart board with some other replacements, George Luz was regaling a group of vets with a Colonel Sink impersonation, and Giddy seemed to have been talked into a corner by an enthusiastic middle-aged local with a cane, his tweed jacket spangled with medals. Women from town were mingling freely, but while Dean mentally congratulated a few of his fellow servicemen, none of the girls were the kind of knockout he'd expect in a lamia.

Liebgott bumped against Dean. His expression was anything but friendly. "You done with recon yet, Toto?"

Another Easy private shoved Liebgott from behind. "Come on, Joe, lay off the replacements."

Liebgott didn't take his eyes off Dean. "Get 'em while you can," he said under his breath.

"Jackass," Dean muttered as the two men left. He made a circuit through the pub again, dodging tankards and lit ends before slipping out the back entrance.

No other amorous couples were camped out behind the pub. General light discipline was meant to keep the Luftwaffe away, but the thin moonlight didn't lend itself to scoping the scene of an attack. All Dean turned up was a chest-high stain on the wall and a pigeon carcass, its neck limp and too long. "Where'd you go?" Dean murmured. "There's a whole division to snack on, so why wouldn't you stay?" He stopped in front of the door and rubbed his temple. "Unless I'm being more reasonable than a soul-sucking freak."

Dean jumped as the back door flew open; Giddy Orland caught himself just in time. "Sorry," he stammered, looking spooked. He pushed past Dean and sprinted down the alley before Dean could reply.

Dean stared after him. "Still more stable than him," he told himself, and headed back inside.

* * *

"No, be honest. You're with him in First Platoon." Liebgott lit another cigarette. "You think he's cracking?"

Skinny Sisk took a deep breath and let it out. "Not coming to London doesn't mean he's addled. Hell, a week's leave with the likes of us? The man probably has better sense than anyone this side of Winters."

"Christ, Skinny." Liebgott looked away. "Guy spends all his spare time in church."

Skinny smiled. "You got something against that?"

"I'm just saying, he was never like that!" Liebgott gestured, the red tip of his smoke leaving trails in the dark. "Come on, you and me, we've known the guy since he came to Toccoa. We've known the guy two goddamn years, and this ain't Giddy."

"He'll be fine," Skinny said firmly. "What're you in such a hurry for?" Liebgott didn't answer; he bent his neck and concentrated on his cigarette. They kept the quiet for a time, each for his own reasons, until Skinny tensed up, frowning. "You hear that?"

"Hear what?"

Skinny held up a hand; they both stopped in the middle of the lane. Wind rustled the hedges on either side of them. Liebgott put his cigarette to his mouth again. "I don't hear anything."

"Never mind, then." He started forward. The hedges began rustling again. Skinny froze. "There, you hear that now? Wait." He peered into the dark shoulder of the lane. Something red blinked through the shrubbery.

"Jesus," Liebgott breathed. "Shit, what is that?"

A burst of growls punctured the quiet. Something massive threw itself against the hedges: a paw clawed at the air, blacker than the darkness around them. A dog followed after it, shaggy and snarling, its shoulder hip-high. It paced the road in front of them, its hackles high and its eyes red as embers. "Are you armed?" Skinny croaked.

"Like hell I'm armed!" Joe snapped.

"Jesus." Skinny grabbed Joe's sleeve and tugged. "Come on!"

The dog barked and lunged after them, tearing at the hard-packed earth. The hedges boxed them in on either side, and Skinny had the horrible notion they were being herded away from town. Every mountain legend and childhood fear flooded back, and when he tripped and the dog's claws raked his side, he couldn't cry out. For one long, horrible moment, the dog was all over him, stinking breath and rancid fur — until Liebgott doubled back with a right hook at the thing's head and knocked it to its side. Wordlessly he yanked Skinny upright and pulled him away. The dog scrabbled to its feet, foam flying from its mouth, and Skinny knew he'd go home in pieces before he was sent back to war.

A shrieking of birds erupted overhead. Two huge ravens dropped onto the dog, talons and beaks savaging it. Liebgott and Skinny didn't stick around to watch.


	2. Free Until They Cut Me Down

Once the sergeants stopped bellowing and the platoon stood in formation, all eyes were on Captain Winters. He was a tall, quiet redhead whom the Normandy vets worshipped and who awed the replacements; he watched his men with an expression of unshakeable calm.

"All right, men." His voice carried without having to shout. "Remember, these are live rounds. This isn't standard procedure, but there's no substitute, and you don't want to learn this in combat. Keep your heads down and be careful so you can make it to the objective safely. Doc Roe is right here if anybody needs him." The solemn medic stood at Winters' side, his hand already resting on his supply bag.

The morning was calm and quiet, save for the heavy breathing of the replacements. Winters nodded to his sergeants. Guarnere yelled for his squad to shoot high, and Grant ordered his boys to hit the ground. Dean dropped flat into the dirt. He stared at the soles of the boots in front of him, bracing himself for the opening shots. The chin strap on his helmet pinched against his throat. His amulet and dog tags dug into his chest.

The crack of ammunition came close on Guarnere's word. Dean pushed himself forward, clutching his rifle. Hot bullet casings dropped out of the air. Some men cursed, but most stayed silent. Dean grappled with the raw earth, imagining mortar fire and German machine guns; he had to wonder if this was how it would be when it finally happened.

The platoon closed the fifty yards to the row of fresh trenches. They all survived. Winters nodded, and ordered the riflemen to reload.

* * *

"Get a load of this," Babe muttered. He nodded at the civilian by the side of the road. The man was powerfully built, with a full graying beard and an ornate wooden cane. Pins studded his jacket, some presumably military, some unrecognizable. He tugged at his cap, calling out greetings to the American soldiers.

"He was at the pub last night," said Dean, watching him.

"We go out and you notice that?" Babe snorted. "And here I thought you were trawling for girls."

"I was," Dean said, allowing himself a smile. "I just didn't find the right one."

Babe clucked his tongue. "Ah, see, that's what you get for bein' picky."

"Boys!" the man called out as they approached. "Boys, what was all that? Surely the Krauts haven't come over here."

"Just a training exercise, buddy," said Dean. "Nothing to worry about."

The man leaned on his cane and took up the march beside them. "Listen to me, son. Those shots sounded real, and if you're not using blanks, there's things here in Wiltshire that need to be shot."

"Yeah?" Dean glanced at Babe, who rolled his eyes. "Like who?"

"Not who," the man said darkly. "What. Starting with that rabid dog that attacked your boys last night."

Babe's smirk fell away. "What?"

The man's eyes went wide. "You haven't heard this? Yes, two of your Airborne friends ran into a great horrible hound. One of them's in hospital for it."

Dean focused on his medals. "What's your name, pal?"

"Willand," he said, not flagging in the slightest. "Will you boys do us the favor of getting rid of it? I don't like the thought of a great dangerous dog running around these parts."

Dean adjusted the strap on his shoulder. "Well, Mr. Willand, if we see something, we'll take care of it, how's that?"

Willand beamed. "Bless you, son! Here, here, as a token of my appreciation." He plucked a silver pin off his jacket and held it out. Somewhat bemused, Dean took it. "I'm going to warn the others," Willand said earnestly, and stepped away from the column.

Babe twisted his head to watch him hail the rest of the platoon. "Well, looks like you made a new friend," he said. "What'd he give you?"

Dean squinted. The pin was small, the size of a finger joint, but the detail was exquisite: a wild face peered out from a mane of leaves and vines. "It's a Green Man," he said, surprised, and looked over his shoulder. Willand was chatting with some replacements, his whole bearing animated.

"A what?" Babe held out his hand. "Lemme see that." Dean handed him the pin. Babe whistled. "Yeah, you lucked out. Looks to me like he unloaded an ugly on you."

Dean took it back. "Least he gives me presents when I volunteer to go dog-catching."

Babe canted his head. "You ain't gonna go looking for this dog, are you? I mean, you do stupid things for fun, sure, but that ain't even perversely fun."

"That pretty much sums it up," Dean said. He stared at the Green Man. Its face told him nothing.

 

   
**December 23, 1941  
Lawrence County, South Dakota**

Sam settles back in the armchair Indian-style, the enormous monograph spread over his knees. "You think we'll get snowed in here for Christmas?"

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Dean glances up from cleaning the guns. "It'd be almost as good as being snowed in at the library."

"Shut up," Sam says. "Anyway, don't pretend like you don't like it here too."

Dean pointedly scans the cluttered room. "It's Bobby's house. We've been here tons of times."

Sam bends his neck, eyes on his book. "I like it."

Dean picks up a swab in one hand and the barrel of a sawed-off in the other. "Maybe Bobby can pick up the Minneapolis station. They'd know."

"Yeah, good luck getting the radio on. Dad won't want to listen to the news." He turns a page. "I think he doesn't want to hear about the war."

"Yeah, well, he's got good reason," says Dean. "He already fought the Germans once. I'd be mad too if they didn't learn their lesson." Sam doesn't reply, which Dean will take as a victory. They each turn to their tasks again in silence.

Bobby's dog Pershing begins to bark outside. "There they are," says Dean, and the front door swings open, welcoming in a shock of cold.

"Hey boys!" Bobby calls. Dean sets the shotgun on the table, and Sam follows him into the foyer, book tucked under his arm. Dad is twisting the lock shut, while Bobby lifts his eyebrows at them, mouth hidden behind his grizzled beard. "You been behaving?"

Dean pulls a wry face. "Not really, but we cleaned up pretty good, so nothing to worry about." He hovers by Dad's elbow. "You need any help with anything?"

Dad looks up and smiles a little. "Nah, we were offloading. Shop in Omaha had a pretty hungry buyer."

Sam grins back at him. "What were you selling?"

Bobby rolls his shoulders. "Protective stuff, mostly. Charms, wards, sigils." He sniffs. "Market for amulets has gone through the roof. People these days want good luck they can carry."

"Let's go inside to the fire, huh?" Dad ushers them back. "Your old man's freezing."

Bobby shrugs off his hefty coat and sets it on a hook. He looks down at Sam's light reading. "You planning a trip to Central Asia?"

Sam displays a spread of grainy black and white photographs: Tibetan monasteries and Sanskrit lettering fill both pages. "It talks about tulpas," he says eagerly. "They're spirits you create with your mind."

Dad cuffed him briefly around the shoulders. "Don't need a spell to imagine things into life. Come on."

"Is there going to be snow?" Sam asks, trailing after him.

"Don't know," says Dad. "We'll see."

The house is comfortable again with Bobby and Dad in it. Once news has been shared and coffee brewed, Dad sends Dean back to gun-cleaning, and Sam with him. He and Bobby take up seats at the kitchen table, quiet until the boys both leave. Dean settles into his routine, pouring over an old Smith &amp; Wesson pistol they use for silver bullets. Sam curls up with his book again.

Dean's ears prick up at the sound of Dad's voice. "You hear about Wayne Stebbins?"

"Yup," says Bobby. "Shame." A chair in the kitchen creaks. "What was it, werewolf?"

Sam looks up from his pages. Dean holds a finger to his mouth.

"Spoke to Marlene myself. They think it was a demon."

"Jesus."

"There are barely hunters enough to take care of what we got," sighs Bobby. "Last thing we need is demons getting stirred up."

"You know they're going to love this war," says Dad, his voice flat. "God knows they did last time."

"I saw it," says Bobby, and both of them are quiet.

Sam looks at Dean, his brow knitted. "Demons?" he whispers.

"Shut up," hisses Dean.

"You know Amy Wilkes," Bobby says, "out in Charleston?"

"West Virginia?"

"South Carolina." He pauses to take a slurp of coffee. "Had a letter that her boy's joined the Navy."

Dad grunts. "She mad?"

"As a hellcat. Thinks he'll be wasted on a boat."

Dad snorts. "There's a misplaced sense of patriotism for you."

Bobby chuckles.

Sam turns to Dean again. "You won't join, will you?"

Dean scoffs. "I'm sixteen, Sam. I can't."

He swallows. "It just started two weeks ago."

Dean leans on the chair arm. "Look, the United States got into the Great War and it was over in a year and a half. Stop worrying. I'm staying right here where I'm needed."

Sam nods, still uneasy. "Okay."

In another room, Bobby's huge Philips radio sputters to life. The voice of the announcer fills the house. Dean knows just where Dad is: sitting alone at the kitchen table, drinking his coffee and staring straight ahead.

 

   
**July 28, 1944  
Aldbourne, England**

The tip of his knife was catching on a knot of wood. Twenty solid minutes Dean had been carving, but so far his runes and sigils were little more than scratches on the beams of his bunk. "Come on," he muttered through clenched teeth, maneuvering his arm into a slightly less unworkable angle. Outside, a bird raised a racket like a drunk in an alley. The point of the knife skittered over the wood, scratching the line of a circle. "Damn it," he hissed, just as the door to the barracks swung open. He glared up at the mattress above him. "For the last time, I'm not coming to London!"

"You're in luck, then," said a voice that didn't belong to Babe. "I wasn't offering."

Dean slipped the knife under his covers and scooted forward. Giddy Orland stood in the middle of his quarters, hands in his pockets. "Hi," said Dean, puzzled. Giddy bent to peer under the bunk.

"What're you doing?"

"Nothing," he said quickly, getting to his feet. "Just my girl's name, you know. There something I can help you with?"

"No." Giddy examined the other empty beds. "Just checking to see who's sticking around this weekend."

Dean crossed his arms. "What, you trying to set up a baseball game or something?"

Giddy smiled. "I'm lousy on the infield, but that's not a bad idea."

Dean watched him. The man was nothing like the nervous wreck he'd seen at the Blue Boar. "Why aren't you on the train to London? Everyone else couldn't skip out fast enough."

He shrugged. "I've seen it. By the way." He nodded at Dean's bed. "I really don't care if you keep going."

Dean paused. "You're not supposed to report destruction of army property or anything?"

"Some things are more important," said Giddy, eyes still on the bunk. "What's your girlfriend's name?"

He leaned against the bedpost, trying to stay casual. "Carmen."

Giddy crouched down and peered underneath the bunk. "I'd go with runes if I had to carve curvy letters too," he said dryly.

That stopped Dean cold. "You know what these are?" Giddy looked back at him, his expression hopeful. Dean stared at him. "Do you hunt?"

"What?" The small smile fell off Giddy's face. "I'm from Traverse City, Michigan," he said uncertainly.

"But you recognize these," Dean prompted.

"I know you'll need them," he said, before straightening suddenly and clamming up. He edged back toward the door. "I shouldn't stay."

Dean frowned. "What? Why?"

Giddy shook his head. "Just watch yourself, Winchester, all right? Stick with Easy."

Before Dean could voice another question, he was gone. Dean hurried out the door, but Giddy was out of sight, lost in the rows of barracks. One of the rooftop ravens took off, its partner clacking its beak after it. Dean watched it wing against the pale evening sky, a dark, ragged shape against an otherwise clear backdrop.

"Okay," he muttered. "Now I'm definitely unsettled."

* * *

The best place to take Giddy's advice, no matter how weird, was the Blue Boar. Dean came expecting the usual madhouse, but found the pub mostly empty: more men must have made off for London than he'd thought.

One corner was lively, however. Willand, of all people, was holding court with a handful of Easy guys. Dean recognized them as Toccoa men, soldiers who'd been with the unit since it was formed in '42. All of them had been through Normandy. Don Malarkey was explaining the workings of a mortar squad with an enthusiasm he usually reserved for Glenn Miller. George Luz kept trying to talk over him and change the topic to girls. Pat Christenson listened with his neck bent, sketching on a napkin; Skip Muck kept quiet, his normally merry eyes narrowed as he watched the rest and chain-smoked.

"Now that's an improvement," Willand pronounced as Dean approached, beer in hand. "We certainly didn't have ourselves together like that in my day." He caught sight of Dean and beamed. "Private! Pull up a chair and join us, won't you? I'm sure there's plenty you'll learn from these men."

Dean glanced at the faces of the vets, who looked back at him with a much more muted welome. "Thanks," he said, "but I'm just passing through."

"Oh, come now!" Willand gestured at the table. "Please, I must insist."

Luz's mouth twisted around his cigarette. "You heard the man, Winchester. Unless you got other plans."

After a moment, Dean had to smile. "Guess I don't."

Luz swatted at Christenson. "Here, make some room."

Dean took a seat. "So, what're we talking about?"

"Our buddy here is an arms nut," said Muck, elbows propped up on the table. "And a bloodthirsty one at that."

Willand chuckled. "Nonsense. It doesn't count when they're Jerries. I think it's important to hit the enemy with everything you've got."

Dean paused, his beer halfway to his mouth. "Don't loose lips sink ships or something?"

Malarkey snorted. "We're not saying anything the Krauts don't already know about! Isn't that right?"

"Corporal Christenson," said Willand, leaning forward so his medals jangled. "Your .30-caliber machine gun must be a work of art. You should be very proud of it."

"Hey, I got an idea," said Luz. "Winchester, you want to answer some questions?"

Dean set down his mug. "Animal, vegetable or mineral, you mean?"

"Oh, animal," said Luz, eyes gleaming. "Is it true you come from a family of snake-throwers?"

He coughed, nearly knocking his beer over. "You're serious?" He laughed. "No, I'm not a snake-thrower. Or an Okie. That's a good one, though, I'm impressed. Anyone else?"

"Private Winchester," said Willand, taking his time with Dean's name, "have you lost that pin I gave you?"

Dean faced him. "No, I've still got it."

Willand folded his hands. "It was a gift, shouldn't you be wearing it?" Malarkey shot Muck an amused sidelong glance; Muck just shook his head.

"It's a great pin," said Dean, "but it's pretty non-regulation."

"Oh, but that hasn't stopped you yet," said Willand. "Or others: many soldiers go into battle wearing tokens."

Luz craned his neck. "What'd he give you?"

"One of these." Willand reached for his chest and plucked another Green Man pin from his jacket. Luz took it and held it up to the light, squinting.

"You don't mind my asking, but what the hell is it?"

"It's for Wiltshire," said Willand enthusiastically. "For Britain. I make them myself." Luz pulled a bemused face and passed the pin to Christenson. Willand settled back into his seat. "I hope you'll sport it in the future."

Dean bowed his head, lifting his glass. "Absolutely."

"You're welcome. Now." Willand smiled at him. "What is your specialty in the field, Private Winchester? How will you be defeating the Germans?"

The tentative good will around the table evaporated. Dean drew his shoulders in. "I haven't been in the field yet," he said, his face growing hot.

"But don't worry," Malarkey interrupted, his cheer faintly forced, "the war's over once we get him there."

The beat lasted a moment too long before Willand turned aside. "Let me tell you about how far you've come," he began. "Gunnery evolves so quickly, doesn't it?"

* * *

"Hey, you cutting out?"

Dean looked down to see Luz at his shoulder. "Yeah," he said.

"Great, me too." He held out a hand in front of him. "What, you're waiting for an invitation? Door's right there, go."

Dean pushed through, slipping his hat from his belt with his free hand. "You're walking me home?" he asked, somewhat amused.

"You're damn right," said Luz, patting down his jacket for his Lucky Strikes. "Haven't you heard? There's a rabid dog out here. Not to mention an insufferable jackass back there."

Dean bowed his head and laughed. "Yeah, I'll take the dog, personally."

"No kidding, right?" Luz jammed his cigarette between his lips and leaned into his lighter. "I swear to God, that guy has just figured out there's troops stationed here. We were in Aldbourne eight, nine months and I never saw the man. We get back from Normandy, boom, he can't keep his hands off us. Probably just now figured out there's a war on."

Dean frowned. "But he's from around here, isn't he?"

Luz shrugged. "So he says. I dunno, maybe he's been off in a cottage making weird jewelry since the Great War. Who cares? He ain't interested in anything interesting." He screwed up his face in an apt caricature of Willand's expression. "'Now, troopers, the floor plan of the factory which makes your M1 Garand rifle is a most fascinating design.' Who the hell knows how he knows all this stuff."

Dean grinned at the impersonation. "Not bad."

"Thank you," said Luz cheerfully. "You should hear my Major Horton, it won a ribbon at the fair last year." The lit end of his smoke flared red briefly. "Say, by the way, if you're not an Okie and you're not a snake-thrower, what are you?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "A little black terrier, apparently."

Luz chuckled. "Ah, that's right. Still, could be worse — you get to ride around with a dewy-eyed broad with a swell pair of shoes, and in glorious Technicolor too."

Dean nodded slowly. "Hadn't really thought of it that way."

"It's what they keep me around for."

They walked in silence for a moment while Luz smoked his cigarette. "Hey," said Dean, "can I ask you something?"

"You didn't just?" He waved it off. "Nah, go on."

"Giddy Orland came by my quarters, just before I came out here." He paused. "Did something happen to him?"

The merriment left Luz's face. "What do you mean?"

Dean grimaced a little. "I don't know, it was just…" He glanced at Luz. "I don't know how to explain it."

"Hey." Luz gestured with his Lucky Strike. "Listen, you give Giddy a little space, all right? God knows what I'd do if I couldn't find my unit for nine days in combat." His mouth tightened. "Giddy's fine. He's in my platoon, I see him every day. Don't worry about it."

"He told me I should stick with Easy," Dean said, angling for another opening.

Luz smiled. "He's right about that. Jesus, Winchester, think of it, you could be in Dog Company. You know they got this lieutenant who's fucking crazy, right? You heard the stories about Speirs yet?"

Dean opened his mouth to reply; before he could speak, a flash of white glided past an open space between hedges, liquid and confident in its gait. They both stopped in their tracks. The sound of unshod hooves echoed unseen nearby.

"Did somebody lose a horse?" said Luz, baffled.

Dean listened for more. "Or a unicorn, if we're lucky." Luz chuckled; Dean couldn't bring himself to smile. "You should stay here," he said, one hand edging toward his belt.

The look Luz shot him was skeptical. "It's a horse."

"Let's hope." Dean started after it.

Luz hurried after. "What else would it be?"

The horse was waiting for them at the edge of the barracks, nearly glowing in the light of the moon. "Jesus, would you look at that," said Luz, his jaw slack. "Where's the Knights of the Round Table, huh?" The horse blinked at them, its eyes dark pools set in a pale face. "It's probably lost," he continued, rapt. "These barracks used to be stables, before we came. Maybe it's confused."

Dean said nothing, but began to move toward the horse. It pawed the ground and whickered softly. Luz lifted both eyebrows. "So, Winchester — you, ah, know something about horses? From your upbringing?"

"You got any steel on you?" he said, eyes on the horse.

"'Fraid I'm fresh out," said Luz, dropping his smoke and grinding the butt under his heel. "What for?"

The horse tossed its head with a snort. It started walking toward Luz, arcing away from Dean. Its tracks were muddy behind it. "Whoa," said Luz, holding up both hands in front of him. "Little help here?"

"Don't touch it!" Dean snapped.

"What?"

Dean dug into his jacket. "It's not a horse. Get out of here."

"What, are you nuts?" Luz gestured. "Of course it's—"

The horse hissed at them, baring a mouth full of needle-sharp fangs. "Jesus!" Luz yelped, stumbling backward. The horse reared up, its mane and tail flinging brackish water. Dean whipped out his knife and ducked beneath the creature's thrashing front legs. He managed to graze its chest with the edge before one sharp hoof caught him squarely in his ribcage. He felt the crack of bone before he landed on his back.

The creature lunged forward and tore at his shoulder with its teeth. Dimly, Dean was aware of Luz bellowing through the empty barracks for help. Foul water sprayed him from the creature's coat: it bent over him again, jaws open, one back foot crushing his ankle. Dean gripped the knife handle again, trying to focus on the creature's face. The whiteness of its coat had tarnished, spotted with black patches of rot. In the space of a moment, Dean jackknifed up, plunging the blade into the creature's neck to the hilt. The creature screamed, its cry halfway between a beast's and a man's. It staggered off him, trying to slam and shake the knife out of its flesh. Dean thudded to the ground, his breath shallow. He closed his eyes and listened to the creature dissolve into liquid, which seeped back over him and into the hard-packed earth.


	3. Free Until They Cut Me Down

Dean wasn't expecting to wake up. That he did so in a hospital bed with a woman's palm on his brow only compounded his confusion.

"Lie still, for pity's sake," said Nurse Morgan, her voice so gentle he nearly didn't recognize it. The ward was quiet: not even ambient hospital noise reached them. He blinked against the early morning light and peered down at his body.

"Where's my cast?" he mumbled. He tried to sit up, but Nurse Morgan held his shoulder against his pillow.

"You've nothing broken, Private Winchester. In fact, you're quite mobile, but I'd like to discuss some things with you before you leave."

He frowned at her. "That's not possible." He tried to prop himself up on his elbows. "Where's Luz? What happened?"

"I sent Sergeant Luz back to barracks," she said. "Your medic Corporal Roe was more than help enough." One corner of her mouth curled up. "Quite the exciting night you had."

Dean eyed her, slowly pushing himself upright. "My ribs were broken, probably punctured a lung," he said. "My leg—"

"The nixie is dead," she said. "The knife should be where you left it." She reached into her pocket and withdrew his amulet, the bronze head dangling on its leather cord. "And while I have your attention, might I ask how you came by this?"

Dean grabbed the necklace. "Give that to me," he snapped. She let him take it, and watched as he slipped it over his neck and under his shirt.

"It's not finished," she said. "Do you know what it signifies?"

He glared as he straightened his collar. "Lady, no offense, but mind your own business."

Nurse Morgan smiled, unperturbed. "As you will. Though I do hope we'll have the chance to speak again before you go." She folded her hands. "By the by, we'll have no more trouble from the lamia or the black shuck either."

Dean slid sideways, his legs dangling off the bed. "And what would you know about that?"

"If you have your secrets, Private, then I shall have mine." She stepped back. "Take care of yourself, now. I will be where you'll find me."

Dean didn't take his eyes off her until she was through the ward doors. His stomach vaguely sour, he ran his hands over his shoulder, chest and ankle: each was whole and unscathed. Even his uniform was clean, if rumpled from a night's sleep. He didn't even have a hangover. Unsettled, he reached for his boots and pulled them on, lacing them up over the bottoms of his trousers. No other hospital personnel came for him. He tested his weight on his feet before breaking for the nearest exit as fast as he could.

He reached the scene of the attack before his barracks. The dirt was torn up where it wasn't sodden; blood marbled the mud where he'd fallen. Dean unclenched his jaw and scanned the ground for the glint of medal. Nurse Morgan hadn't lied — his silver knife lay close to where the nixie had fallen. He swiped the blade on a patch of weeds and hid it back under his jacket. The sun was climbing higher behind a scrim of cloud cover: he scuffed his boots over the signs of struggle and kicked the mud out of his treads, ready to retreat for a good hour of polishing and hard thinking.

"Private Winchester!"

He turned around, startled. Lieutenant Peacock was striding toward him, his face pinched. Trapped, Dean straightened up and saluted. Peacock, an officer with a fastidious streak, returned the salute and glared up at Dean. "You look quite well, Private."

He swallowed. "Thank you, sir, I'm feeling well."

Peacock's mouth thinned. "Then why is it that I received notice this morning that you were in the hospital with broken bones and internal injuries?" Dean said nothing. Peacock narrowed his eyes. "Obviously Lieutenant Compton would be taking care of this if he wasn't off in London now, but someone has to maintain order around here. I understand that you were out drinking last night."

Dean's hopes for a quiet morning sank. "At the Blue Boar, yes, sir."

Peacock drew himself up. "Perhaps it seemed like an amusing idea at the time, but there is no room for reporting false injuries in war, Winchester. How you got Medic Roe involved, I don't know and don't want to know. He's normally far more conscientious than this." He nodded once. "Change your gear. Did you have plans today?"

He held in a sigh. "No, sir."

"Just as well," said Peacock. "You'll be digging trenches until I am satisfied. Report to the latrines in ten minutes."

Dean watched him march off, head held high. "Son of a bitch," he grumbled, and hurried to go change.

* * *

Eugene Roe sat crouched near the edge of Dean's latest ditch, his elbows resting on his knees.

"Don't know how many more of these we're gonna need," he said at last.

Dean stuck the short shovel in a corner. He wiped his face in the crook of his arm, leaving a stain of mud and sweat. "Should I keep going?"

Roe looked away. "Far be it from me to second-guess Lieutenant Peacock. Don't think he'll expect you to be done so soon, though."

Dean sat down on the grass, his boots in the trench, and took out his canteen. "Well, at least I know now why I joined the army." He held up his water in a toast. "Screw Hitler and screw Pearl Harbor, I came to Europe because Europe needed more holes in it."

A smile fluttered on Roe's face, but not for long. He glanced back at the line of short ditches Dean had finished. "Sure made short work of these."

Dean tipped back his canteen. "Used to dig graves for money."

Roe squinted. "Yeah, I ain't surprised."

Dean paused. "What's that mean?"

Roe settled onto the ground. "I was wondering if we'd get one of your kind here."

Dean screwed the cap back on his flask. "My 'kind'?"

"A hunter." Roe nodded. "I saw your necklace, and your scars." He began toying with the edges of his sleeves. "You know something strange is going on here. You'd be a lot more spooked if you hadn't seen it before."

Dean canted his head. "I didn't think you were the type."

Roe smiled briefly. "I'm not. But my grandmother, she knew them. Know what a _traiteur_ is?"

Dean blinked, surprised. "Cajun healer?"

"That's right." His face became serious again. "She was never that quick, though. You were bad off last night. I know what I saw."

"You think something's happening at the hospital?" Dean said slowly.

Roe looked down at his hands. "I think I don't trust that Nurse Morgan. She got a gift, sure, but…" He shook his head. "My grandmother, she used to talk to God. This lady, she wants something."

"Yeah," said Dean, reaching for his shovel again. "Though damned if I know what."

Roe got to his feet. "I'll keep watching," he said. Dean nodded, and went back to work.

 

   
**May 2, 1942  
Bloomington, Indiana**

"Be polite," says Dad in the silence after he's pressed the doorbell. "We want to make a good first impression."

"I'll be polite!" says Dean, slouching into his jacket. Sam yawns and sways on his feet. Behind the gauzy curtains and stained glass window, the large Victorian house is quiet.

Sam rubs one eye with a knuckle. "Are we gonna spend all day here?"

"We have to see." Dad peers into a window. "Depends if she'll help. Dean, give it another ring."

He steps forward, ready to press the bell, when the unmistakable sound of high heels comes strolling toward them.

When the owner of the house opens the front door, Dean thinks his eyes might fall right out of his head. If Yvonne de Carlo looks this good up close, no wonder the troops crowd to see her. She wears pearls with a polka dot halter dress, and Dean can't choose between fixating on the hint of cleavage or the stretch of collarbone. She grins at them all, radiant without makeup. "The Winchesters, isn't it? John, Dean and Sam. Bobby sent me a telegram to warn me."

Dad restrains himself admirably, but Dean can tell he's wrestling with some unholy thoughts himself. "Mrs. Barnes?"

She laughs. "Miss, and please, call me Pam." She holds out her hand, and Dad shakes it, somewhat awkwardly. She steps aside, propping open the door. "Come on in. How do you feel about breakfast?" Her eyes fall on Sam. "I bet you're hungry for something good," she says, the curl of her lips a touch mischievous. "It's your birthday, right?"

"Yeah," he says, totally awake.

She wags her eyebrows. "Well, they may be rationing everything from here to Kingdom Come, but I think I can scrape together the sugar for a cake. What do you think, is thirteen too old for a sweet tooth?"

"Definitely not," says Sam, and Dean has to give the kid credit, because he is totally milking that undersized, wide-eyed and hungry for feminine attention look.

Pam gives Dean a pinup girl glance over her shoulder. "Hey there, big guy, you want to help me with something?" That's how he finds himself standing in a kitchen wooden spoon in hand, mixing batter. The smell of all that butter and sugar is heady under his nose. Pam leans against her counter, cigarette in hand, by turns arguing with Dad about his hunt and instructing Dean in the fine art of baking. Sam is staring at a huge framed photograph in the sitting room; it shows a woman playing an electric guitar and singing. She's wearing a vibrant floral dress. Pam turns to him mid-sentence. "You like that, sweetie?"

He twists to look at her. "Who is it?"

Pam's pearly whites are picture perfect. "That's Sister Rosetta Tharpe, the guitar-playing gospel queen. I took a train up to Chicago once to see her live. It was a hell of a show."

Dean crooks an eyebrow as he stirs the batter. "You like gospel music?"

She looks him right in the eye. "I like all sorts of music, and you're free to check out my record collection, mister. You might learn something."

"This poltergeist—" prompts Dad.

"It's not a poltergeist," she says easily, crossing her arms. "I've been over there a dozen times. The signature's different. Not a demon either. I'm happy to take you over there. You can even drop the boys off downtown for a movie." She turns again to Sam and Dean. "What do you say, guys? There's a great double feature, _Rings On Her Fingers_ and _Captains of the Clouds._ I've seen 'em both already, they're top shows."

"If we're investigating this house, I want Dean with me," says Dad.

"Then we won't go tonight," says Pam. "It's not going anywhere, why should we?" She winks at Sam. "Besides, cake doesn't go so well with hunting."

Dad's mouth thins, but he doesn't say anything, which is its own stunner. Sam doesn't seem to have quite caught on to teenagehood quite yet, because he's this close to making an "I'm a real boy now" face at Pam. Dean won't pretend he's not relieved; the hinky stuff can wait, so long as someone has offered to let him investigate her vinyl.

* * *

Somehow Pam ends up next to Dean as they head back to the car. He catches her smiling at him, and he can't help but smile back. "What?"

"I saw that," she says, eyes gleaming. "During the newsreel."

His smile becomes puzzled. "What, that Japan has taken over Burma? A 'military catastrophe,' I know I was on the edge of my seat."

"Mm." She loops her arm through his elbow. "I may be psychic, but I'm also not an idiot. You want to join up."

"What? No." He laughs. "I mean, I can't, I'm too young. And Dad needs me here. Someone has to look out for Sam."

"Sam's got a mind of his own, you know. He can take your dad. Bet he will someday too." She gives his arm a squeeze. "I think you should do it. Not least because you'd look awfully fetching in uniform."

Dean swallows and looks at his feet. "That's not a reason."

"No." She turns serious. "But you should do what you think is right, Dean. Training like you've had already? Uncle Sam could use your help."

He snorts. "What, are you selling war bonds or something?"

Pam chuckles, low in her throat. "I could, couldn't I? Maybe I should think about it: we're going to be in this thing a while." She looks ahead at the line of Dad's shoulders, at Sam recounting his favorite scenes in animated detail to him. "Everybody's in on this. Just because you're a hunter doesn't make you any less of a citizen. And if you can help end this thing even one day sooner, think of how many lives you'd save then."

Dean furrows his brow. "You really are selling war bonds, aren't you."

Pam meets his eye, her expression fierce. "I know there's shit going down on the home front. There always has been, always will be. Don't let that tie you down. Maybe it's not my place to say anything. I know this is your family business, but you're almost an adult, and you should make your own decisions."

He avoids looking at her. "What if my decision's to stay stateside and fight?"

She nods. "Then that's your decision. You made it. You own it. But don't pretend you don't have options. You make any option you want."

Dean stares at her for a moment. "I've never met a woman who talks like you."

Pam gives him a crooked smile. "You just need to meet more people, dollface."

 

   
**July 30, 1944  
Aldbourne, England**

Weekend furloughs had all but emptied the base. Sunday breakfast at the mess was subdued compared to the usual.

"Giddy! Hey, Giddy!" George Luz settled back in his seat. "Okay then, never mind." He caught sight of Dean, one cheek packed with scrambled egg, watching him from a few tables over. Luz's expression became vaguely nervous. He promptly turned to Skip Muck and struck up a conversation.

Without warning, Giddy Orland dropped into the seat next to Dean. "You're okay," he said, astonished.

Dean tried not to choke on his breakfast. "Thanks for noticing. Yes I am." He checked for eavesdroppers. Most of the men ignored him, but he picked out Skinny Sisk and Chuck Grant watching. He finished swallowing. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Giddy hunched forward, eyes downcast. "I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have gotten you involved."

Dean set down his fork and lowered his voice. "You think you had something to do with my weekend?"

"Yeah. I got stupid. Too late now, though, right?" Giddy started worrying at his cuticles, but gave up to press his fist on the table. "Look, you need to come with me. I need to show you something."

Dean held up his palms. "Okay, honestly, you seem like a nice guy, but a word of advice: a straight-up reply won't kill you, I promise."

For a moment something sardonic lined Giddy's face. "I like that, that's funny." He stood up again. "How about this: you come with me and I can show you why Easy guys are getting hurt around here."

Dean pushed his tray back. "Now you're talking." Without pause Giddy stood up and headed out of the mess hall. Dean blinked and hurried after him. He caught up with him in the lane leading out of town. "That was a little less explanation than I was hoping for," he began, jogging up to his side.

Giddy looked at him. "How'd you get better so fast?"

A muscle in Dean's side twinged. "Better from what?"

Giddy's face became pinched. "I saw the water-horse."

The lane was quiet. Dean stared; Giddy averted his eyes "You're really not a hunter?" Dean asked, before he shook his head and looked away. "Well, thanks for the help, anyway."

Giddy turned to Dean, his expression pained. "I wasn't close. I'd have stopped it if I could have."

A raven cawed and flapped lazily overhead. Dean craned his neck. "You going to tell me anything," he said warily, "or do I get to walk into this blind and improvise?"

Giddy squinted down the road. "I'll keep you safe. This isn't a trap or anything."

Dean stopped and took him by the arm. "Okay, pal, enough is enough." He planted his feet. "Giddy, you want me to come and help you, I'm gonna need more than that."

Giddy turned to him, suddenly clear-eyed. "Dean — it's Dean, right? You're Easy. There's nothing more I can give you. What else do you need?" He pulled his arm away. "Tomorrow, next week, next month, we'll be asked to climb into airplanes and jump behind enemy lines. And we're going to do it, and we're going to keep each other alive out there. That doesn't start when your parachute deploys. So, will you trust me?"

Dean studied his face. Giddy was still scared, but also resolute. After a moment, Dean nodded. Giddy smiled and laid his hand on Dean's back, just briefly. "Great. Follow me."

* * *

Dean stared. "You're hiding me in a horse stall? This really isn't a prank?"

"You holding out for a broom closet?" Giddy shoved him. "Get in!" Dean stumbled into a limp pile of old hay as the door shut behind him. "And stay quiet, he'll be here any minute."

"Who will? Hey!" Giddy didn't answer him. "I am such a sucker," Dean muttered, hunkering down against the warped gray wood. He settled in front of a peephole and took in the view. Giddy paced slowly up and down the center aisle, mumbling to himself. The air inside the stable was still and hot. Dean settled back on his heels, wondering how long he'd be waiting for the show to start.

The far door swung open. Giddy stopped muttering and faced his visitor. Dean could make out a hand on a cane. Medals jangled as the man approached. "Master Smith," said Giddy, his tone cautious.

"Gideon Gallows-gift." Willand sounded pleased. "How fine to hear you speak with such respect. And how are you faring this summer's day?"

"Enough bullshit," said Giddy. "This needs to end." Something in the ambient light flickered. Willand began to chuckle.

"And so it could, with one little promise."

"Stop asking me that." Giddy's voice crackled. "Please. What is all this for?"

Willand thumped his cane on the ground. "You tell me, my boy. Is it cowardice? Idleness? Perverse delight in the withholding?"

"You have no reason to keep hurting my friends," Giddy insisted.

"Do I not?" Willand stepped close to Giddy; Dean had to strain for the words. "You were forged to beat back the German monstrosity, and you arrived on our shores the greatest weapon created in an age. And yet when I came to you and welcomed you with gifts, you turned me back and refused your new nature. Is that not an insult to me and the land which made you?"

"You gave me crows," began Giddy. "And jewelry."

Willand huffed. "I gave you ravens, gallows-gift, and you have used them, like it or no. If not for them, your companions Sisk and Liebgott surely would be dead. You called them to your service, and they served." He savored his pause. "How is Private Sisk, incidentally? And Sergeant Grant? Or…" Dean saw him spread his hands. "Private Winchester?"

"They're no part of this," said Giddy. "They're no part of anything."

"They're part of you," interrupted Willand. "As are all those others. The fiercest furnace could not break such a thing. I cannot touch you, rune-reader, but you may still feel me. Perhaps I simply have not been aggressive enough. Perhaps you do not wish enough for me to stop."

"You're sick," said Giddy.

"I am quite well," said Willand, cheery as ever. "And so is Captain Winters, I believe. I hope the man takes good care of himself."

Dean could see every line in Giddy's body go rigid. Willand also perked up, more alert. "You faltered," he said softly. "You are hiding something. I did not see that until now."

"There's nothing to see," said Giddy, ignoring Dean's stall. "I haven't lied to you."

Willand laughed. "You are beginning to use it, even now, even as you curse and fear it. I will not keep you when there is so much to do." All his medals clinked as he bowed from the waist. "Good day to you, Corporal Orland."

Once Willand was gone, Dean fell back against the stall and sucked in air after so much shallow breathing. Giddy opened the door, which creaked on its hinges. "Jesus Christ," he said, before Dean could speak. "He's going after Captain Winters."

"What was all that?" Dean pushed himself to his feet. "Giddy, I can't help you if you don't tell me anything."

Giddy's Adam's apple bobbed. "He found me right after we got back from Normandy. Sometimes I dream about him."

"Why'd he call you 'gallows-gift'?" Dean brushed hay off his leg. "And what was that about ravens?"

Giddy raked his fingers through his hair. "No, that's — we need to find Winters. We need to make sure he's safe. I can never get there in time."

"Whoa." Dean grabbed his sleeve. "Who is that guy? Do you know what he can do?"

"You saw the nixie." Giddy pulled away toward the stable door. "He called the lamia and the black dog. I don't want to see what he's saving for Winters."

"Willand," Dean muttered as he followed him out. "You called him Smith… Hang on." He took Giddy's elbow. "Is this seriously who I think it is?" Giddy tried pushed past him, but Dean blocked his way. "No. There are better ways to do this, and I'm not going up against something like that barely armed. We need help."

Giddy choked out a laugh. "Right. Who could help us?"

Dean set his jaw. "I might have an idea."


	4. Free Until They Cut Me Down

Nurse Morgan stood waiting for them inside the door to her ward. Her hands were folded at her waist. Behind her, the beds in their long rows were neatly made and empty. "Boys," she said calmly, looking from one to the other. "What is it I might do for you?"

"Is this place private?" said Dean, checking the doors and windows.

"Can he get in here?" said Giddy, eyes fixed on Nurse Morgan.

"Wayland Smith will not trouble us," she said. "And neither will anyone else. I have laid protections. You may speak freely here."

Dean looked from one to the other, glaring. "In which case, anyone care to tell me what the hell you two know and how?"

Nurse Morgan frowned at him briefly. She gestured to a bed. "Gideon, you're upset. Why don't you sit down for a moment?" Giddy stayed where he stood, his eyes downcast and his shoulders tight.

"I don't know if we should be here," he said. "He doesn't wait long before he sends them out. He shows me exactly what he's doing, but I can never stop it."

"Gideon." Nurse Morgan laid a hand on his shoulder, and he jerked his head up as though he'd been shocked. "Why don't you calm down and tell us what happened."

"Mr. Willand," he stammered, wringing his hands. "He's been trying to get me—"

"No," she said, her voice steady. "That's not what I mean." Giddy's eyes began to lose focus: he looked from Nurse Morgan to Dean to empty spots in the ward.

Dean rubbed his temple, impatient. "Come on, Giddy. If we don't have much time, you've got to talk to us."

"Peace," said Nurse Morgan, turning to Dean. "He has seen war. Most soldiers cannot talk about it." She studied Giddy. "They could not in the Great War, and they cannot now. Gideon, be still." He clutched his elbows, looking between them, and hung his head. His chest rose and fell, but more evenly. "There," she murmured. "Now, Gideon, save your speech. I will hear you. Show us, if you can."

Dean frowned at her. "Show us?"

"I can't," he said, eyes still averted. "You don't understand. I can't."

"Peace," said Nurse Morgan again. "You can, and you must." He squeezed his eyes shut and turned his face aside. Dean felt something cold drop in his stomach. Nurse Morgan waited with imposing patience. Slowly, Giddy turned his back on them, his head still bowed. He mumbled to himself, in the same cadence as Dean had heard in the stable. Overhead, the lamps began to flicker. The windows grew hazy and dim. "Peace," repeated Nurse Morgan. Giddy exhaled and tilted his head back. His long fingers contracted: the last of the light sputtered out. Dean threw out one arm to catch himself—

* * *

The roar of the C-47 makes conversation impossible, but the plane holds steady in its place in the V of Vs. There's nothing left to say now. Colonel Sink put it pretty well, you think: _you are en route to that great adventure for which you have trained for over two years._ Sixty pounds of whatever you can carry is strapped to your leg, and you're bound tight with eighty pounds of jump gear. When the pilot gives the signal, you'll be the second man out, right behind Sergeant Lipton. The drop's tonight. No fog will keep you out of Normandy now. The word rolls around in your head, _Normandy._ You run over the maps and sand tables you and every other trooper have memorized. All the little bridges and hedges, the towns: Sainte-Mere-Eglise. Saint-Lo. Carentan. You have a job to do, and those are the places where you'll do it, God willing.

The night is clear as you pass over the English Channel. Far below, the fleet of ships carrying beach-bound infantry spreads out, final and implacable. Out the open door, past Lipton's head, you can see other planes, and the whole invasion of Europe is on any given side of you. It should inspire awe, but now there's so little inside you besides _Lord, let me do my job_ and _Let me live to help the guys_ and _Let me make it out of this plane._

The rest of your stick, the guys you're going to jump with, they're mostly keeping to themselves. Even Luz is drawn and quiet. You're thinking about the pilots. They've been instructed not to take evasive action. The planes aren't close enough to draw fire yet. At the rate you're flying, that won't last long.

The flak starts ahead of you. Men who had drifted off, asleep or praying or simply staring into space, wake up at the German ack-ack from the approaching coast. Lipton is the jumpmaster: the red light next to the door flares on, and he staggers to his feet, bracing himself against the roll and tumble of the plane. "Get ready!" he bellows, and only endless rehearsals for this moment help you understand him. Every man faces him and holds up their hooks.

"Stand up! Hook up!" You all rise and ready yourselves, tethered to the static line, which runs along the spine of the plane. Buck Compton stands ahead of you: he'll be last out, and he'll push anyone who freezes in the doorway.

"Equipment check!" You pat down Lieutenant Compton's parachute to confirm that it will deploy; George Luz does the same behind you. The airbursts intensify just outside the plane.

The pilots are flying low and fast, maddened and untrained for combat. "Sound off!" Lipton shouts, and the men call out numbers and pound the next man's shoulder: _twenty okay, nineteen okay, eighteen okay… two okay!_ "One okay!" Lipton yells, and nods, readying himself near the door.

It's the Fourth of July a month early out there. Artillery bursts and tracers charge toward you in a frenzy of noise and light. Somewhere up ahead, a plane explodes, and by God, it's terrifying, but all you can think is _out, out, out!_ Through all the chaos you can see canopies unfurled, lucky men already on their way down. Behind you, the guys are yelling and stumbling, swearing and pushing on each other. Shrapnel slices through the wings and walls. There's no hesitating when the light flashes green: Lipton plunges forward and you're right behind him. The leg bag jerks down and rips away, falling without you, but you can't worry about that, you have to count again to yourself, _one thousand two thousand three thousand four thousand—_

And you're deployed. The parachute opens overhead and you grip the risers and you're falling, invading Europe. The hard part is almost over: you look below to check the drop zone, and by the glare of the bombs all you can see is trees. If you can slip like you should, you can steer yourself to land in that field. You can find the rest of Easy, make it to the assembly area, make it to your objective, do your job.

The saying is right: you never hear the one that hits you. The shrapnel rams into your ribcage and knocks the wind right out of you. Holes open up in your chute and the whole thing goes flat. You plummet, too shocked to compensate and fight. The ground rushes up to meet you and the marching song roars in your ears: _Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die._

The tree catching you is blind, dumb luck. You crash through the branches, the risers and canopy snagging and ripping and binding you fast. The bullet is still inside of you. Everything else plays dead.

*

You wake up. You're hanging upside down, hands free and dangling. The ground shakes. Heavy guns. The Navy must have arrived.

You can't move. The wound in your side is still raw and throbbing. You're going to bleed out and die slow.

A squirrel stares at you from a nearby branch. It bares its teeth and chatters before skittering into the foliage.

*

_The days he'd lived and loved and laughed kept running through his mind,  
He thought about the girl back home, the one he'd left behind.  
He thought about the medics and he wondered what they'd find,  
And he ain't gonna jump no more._

*

_Jesus,_ says the man who finds you. He's alone, and he feels it too. You can't signal to him that you're still alive. He ventures closer. You still have gear on you that he could use.

The birds in the trees dive and caw. The wolves snarl and circle and chase him back. The soldier runs, swearing. You haven't moved.

*

You can't explain what you see, or why you're still here. There are women just out of your line of sight. There might be three of them. They might be wearing veils. You think they might be weaving.

The words rustle through the leaves of the tree. _Deyr fé, deyja frændr, deyr sjálfr et sama._ Maybe no one is there.

*

Nights fall. Days break. The wound still bleeds. Your tongue is thick in a dry mouth. The ground is so close. If you could move, you could swipe it with your hands. But you're still here.

*

Something is hiding under the dust, just beyond your fingertips. You can feel it down below.

_No bread nor drink,_ the squirrel cackles.

_Cattle die, kinsmen die._ The birds flap their wings, but keep their watch.

_I know one thing that never dies,_ the wolves murmur, licking their chops.

You twist in the risers, the canopy flapping in a gust of wind.

*

There they are. All at once, you can see them: lines in the dirt, shapes, letters. You draw your breath deep. The clearing is silent; not even the wind troubles the great tree's leaves. If nothing else, this is for yourself.

You lunge, hands open.

Both your fists are full of runes, and you _know._

The risers snap. The birds raise a terrible din. You tumble to the ground with a grunt of shock. There's no stiffness. Your uniform is bloody, but there's no wound.

When you untangle your legs and push yourself to your feet, the world is humming. The clearing is empty. You pat yourself down, shaken, and find only a trench knife strapped to your boot.

The squirrel scolds you as you hurry away.

*

_He felt the wind, he felt the cold, he felt the awful drop—  
—on that tree of which no man knows from where its roots run._

* * *

Light seeped back into the ward quick as in a movie house. Giddy's back was still to Dean and Nurse Morgan. The bitter taste of adrenaline pooled in Dean's mouth. Nurse Morgan was watching Giddy with a knowing, canny look.

"Small wonder Wayland Smith hounds you," she remarked. "Gallows-gift indeed."

"The hell was that?" Dean gasped, rubbing at the tight spot in his chest.

Nurse Morgan canted her head. "Gideon, do you know?"

"_Hávamál,_" he said, his voice flat. "Willand keeps saying I've taken _Hávamál._"

"Yes," she said. "It is one of the Eddas. The poem describes how the high god Odin acquired rune knowledge." She glanced at Dean, and then back at Giddy. "It means that Gideon came to Normandy as a sacrifice, and the land took it, and gave him back with power."

The silence in the ward was resounding. "Am I hearing this right?" said Dean. "Are you saying that Giddy is Odin now?"

"The Aesir do not take vessels," she said dryly. "They are not even in this war, whatever the other side may think. But a country is its own creature, and it will act in self-defense. The Germans have occupied France for some time now. It has lost its patience for occupation."

Dean eyed her, increasingly uneasy. "How do you know all this?"

"None of that matters now," said Giddy, shifting to face them. There was something resolved in his face, now that his secret had been spoken. He leveled a steady gaze at Nurse Morgan. "How are we going to keep Easy safe?"

She folded her hands in front of her. "We dispose of Wayland Smith," she said. "Patience. If you are willing to talk a little, this deed is within your scope."

 

   
**September 17, 1943  
Long Beach, California**

"Six weeks and then I'm out of here," says Carmen, buttoning up her shirt. "Then I'll sign up for the nurses' training college. I don't want to spend the whole war in school, though. If that takes too long I'm signing up to be in the WAVES. You know I could make a hundred and forty dollars a month starting?"

Dean reaches for her waist and pulls her back to the bed. She swats him as she topples, but once she lands she doesn't try to leave. "You sure you don't want to be an actress?" he says, running his hands up her back and over her thigh. "You could do USO shows. I think you'd be great for morale."

She cocks her head, loose strands of hair framing her face. "You want me showing myself to all those other boys?"

"Good point," he says, and leans in for another long kiss.

She looks up at him through eyelashes that go on forever. "You should join the Navy," she purrs. "You already have experience with big guns."

"See? You were made for the movies. You could write your own lines too." Idly he starts undoing her buttons again. "Tell me why I'd want to go anywhere else."

This time she does slap his hand away. "I don't know about you, but my shift is starting." She gets up and starts picking through the clothes on her floor. "I need to kick you out."

Dean watches her step into her pants. "Aw, come on, can't you do your riveting here?"

Carmen gives him a skeptical look. "You should never write movies. Put on your clothes, Dean."

A few minutes later and he's slipping out her window, with promises to meet again soon. The sun beats down on his bare arms, and after spending six weeks in Tacoma hunting kelpies in Puget Sound, Dean's never been so glad for blue skies and warm breezes in his life. He also gives thanks every day for the scope of the war effort: his job at the propeller factory is almost entirely populated with women. Sam likes his new high school and Dad's got mechanic work at the naval yard: their lives are as good as they've ever been.

Dean checks his watch, digs through his pockets for a nickel and hops a bus. A gaggle of sailors laugh and joke among themselves. He watches them from his seat in the back, along with a little old lady in a threadbare cloche.

"Are you joining the service, son?" she asks, unprompted.

Dean turns, then shakes his head. "Can't, I'm 4F." He points. "Perforated eardrums."

She sighs. "Oh, that is a shame."

"You're telling me," he says, and she doesn't make further conversation.

He rides long after both she and the sailors leave the bus, stepping off in a neighborhood that has seen better days. R.E. Calhoun's Cove of the Extraordinary is as big as a Woolworth's. Just inside the front door, a huge gramophone is playing a lively foxtrot. No one greets him, so he slips back through the aisles toward the back of the building. The volume of goods is extraordinary: Dean suspects the last time anyone cleared out and organized the store was before the first Roosevelt took office. Most of what's on the floor isn't noteworthy, beyond old furniture and cases of estate jewelry, but Roland Calhoun doesn't make his money from those wares.

Sam is perched in a dusty Chesterfield, his nose in a paperback. A bug-eyed statue of a faun gazes at his elbow with unnerving devotion. "Hey," says Dean. "Dad here yet?"

Sam looks up. "Yeah, actually, he's been in there with the guy for a while now." He nods at a door with a hand-painted _Private_ sign on it.

Dean sticks his hands in his pockets. "What's he like?"

Sam thinks a moment. "Jovial. I think he wants people to think he's slick or something, but mostly he comes across as patronizing."

"Whoa, why all the big words?" He squints at the book cover. "What are you reading?"

Sam holds it up. "Sinclair Lewis."

His mouth twists. "Smartass."

Sam huffs. "Jerk." He turns toward the door again. "Wish I could have gone in there with him, though. That's where he keeps the good stuff. I heard Dad say he had real mummified cats from Egypt."

Dean considers the closed door. "What did Dad bring him?"

"Couple of things." He shrugs with one shoulder. "Some of Uncle Bobby's curse boxes, and those reliquaries from Albuquerque."

"You think the guy'll bite?"

The doorknob twists. "Guess we'll find out," says Sam, and unfolds himself to stand up.

Dad and Calhoun emerge from the office, Dad smiling and Calhoun patting him on the back. "Once we go through these channels," Calhoun says, in a cheerful, crisp voice, "I'm very much looking forward to working with you, John."

"Thank you," says Dad, and catches sight of Dean. He dips his head toward him. "Mr. Calhoun, my other son, Dean."

Roland Calhoun is a lanky, bespectacled man with a sculpted beard and a fondness for fine suits. He eyeballs Dean for a moment before smiling and offering his hand. "Dean, how do you do."

He shakes, nodding. "It's a pleasure." Unable to stop himself, he glances past Calhoun's shoulder through the open door to his office. Very smoothly, Calhoun reaches behind him and closes the door. Out the corner of his eye, Dean can see Sam slouch back, disappointed.

"And so I'll see you with new merchandise in two weeks?" Calhoun says, clasping soft hands.

"As agreed." He slips into his work jacket. "I'll look into the find in Yuma."

"Very good." Calhoun nods at all three of them. "Good day to you, gentlemen."

"What's in Yuma?" asks Sam as they head out toward the street.

Dad squints into the sunlight. "Apparently there's a mission that's got a copy of a heretical Spanish psalter. Mr. Calhoun would like to buy it."

"So you may be out of town for a few days?" says Sam, bracing himself.

"We'll see," says Dad. He steers them toward a side street.

"That's some pretty heavy stuff he's looking for," says Dean.

"Calhoun's good money," says Dad. "He's a big player. We're lucky he's even talking to us. I'm pretty sure we can thank Bobby Singer's curse boxes for that."

Sam thumbs the corner of his paperback. "When are you leaving?"

Dad looks down at him. "Not yet." He smiles, and hooks an arm around Sam's neck. "I was thinking hot dogs for dinner. You boys up for a trip to the beach?"

Sam doesn't squirm away, not even when Dean ruffles his hair. "You don't have to ask me twice," says Dean, and Dad tosses him the keys to the Model A, which he catches one-handed.

 

   
**August 2, 1944  
Aldbourne, England**

"Fly ball!"

"Jesus, someone go get it!"

The impromptu baseball diamond rang with shouts and laughter as Dean hurried by. "Way to slug it, DiMaggio!" yelled one of the onlookers. A cluster of Toccoa men had taken over a section of wooden fence, clapping and heckling the outfielders. Dean knew them now: Liebgott and Guarnere and Alley and Malarkey and right in the middle of them all, Giddy. They ignored him until he stopped and nodded at Giddy.

"Can I talk to you for a minute?"

The vets all looked up at him. Giddy's grin slipped into something more somber, and he extricated himself from the group. "Yeah, sure."

"Hey, what is this?" Liebgott twisted in his seat. "Some replacement is better company than us? Jeez, my feelings are hurt."

Guarnere's mouth twisted. "Don't get greedy, Joe, you just got the man to say yes to London."

"That's not because of him," said Giddy. "I'm overdue."

"Yeah, just so you know, it ain't church tours and tea parties, way we do it," said Alley around his cigarette.

"Oh, you think I can't make a ruckus?" Giddy winked. "Short memory, Moe."

Malarkey pointed a thumb over his shoulder. "Were you getting out of here? Did I remember that wrong?" Giddy smacked him on the arm and stepped away after Dean.

"What's up?" he asked once they had some distance.

Dean shielded his eyes from the sunlight. "You got any leads on whatever hasn't come yet for Captain Winters?"

Giddy shook his head. "He's making me sweat it out. He's done it before, but never this long."

Dean paused. "And you're not worried?"

"What more can I do?" He glanced back at the game. "I'm watching. I already broke into Winters' quarters and did everything you told me."

"All of it?" Dean pressed.

"All of it," said Giddy. "Salt, carvings, pentacles, everything. We'll be lucky as hell if he doesn't notice them. You know how religious that man is? He'll think the devil's on his tail."

Dean looked away. "Think I got the company offices covered, but he doesn't like desk work, which is damn inconvenient."

"Hey, don't be so down," said Giddy, one corner of his mouth quirking. "I think he's safe until Friday."

"Why's that?"

"Because that's the full moon, and if Willand's planning fireworks, that's when he'll bring them out." He clapped Dean on the shoulder. "We've got our plan. Everybody's in. When he wants to start this thing, we'll be ready. Come on, go have fun or something."

Dean couldn't make himself smile. "You're singing a different tune these days."

Giddy studied him for a moment. "Well, maybe the Catholics have it right about confession," he said quietly. He nodded over Dean's shoulder. "That your friend Heffron?" Dean turned: Babe's red hair stood out in the sea of green and khaki as he strolled toward the mess hall. "You should go catch up with him," said Giddy. "You can't work all the time." Without another word, he nodded and stepped away to rejoin the Toccoa guys.

Babe's face lit up as he caught sight of Dean. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph, look at this." He flicked his cigarette away and grinned. "You sure can disappear when you wanna. If it wasn't for the close drills I'd think you'd skipped town."

Dean found himself crooking a smile. "What, and miss all the fun here?"

Babe snorted. "No fuckin' kidding. Some party town, huh?" He wagged his eyebrows. "Hey, I'm getting some guys together later, play some cards, shoot some craps, maybe. You in?" He held up a mock-stern finger. "This is a clean group. No cheating."

"No cheating?" Dean whistled. "Who can say no to an offer like that?"

"That's what I like to hear, Winchester. You're a model serviceman." Back behind them, a bat connected soundly with a ball. Babe watched the teams scramble to make their plays before turning back to Dean. "Hey, I'm off to the mess. You coming or going?"

Dean kept his eyes on the baseball game. Someone was sliding into a plate, raising a cloud of dust behind him. He shook his head. "I don't know yet," he said.

 

   
**July 30, 1944  
Aldbourne, England**

The light in the ward hadn't changed, but the three of them had been talking for long enough. Nurse Morgan laid a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Gideon, you go ahead. I have a matter for Private Winchester myself."

Dean looked at her, surprised. "You do?"

Giddy glanced between them. "Sure," he said, taking a pace back. "Okay."

Nurse Morgan nodded to Giddy. "Everything is clear to you? You understand our course?"

"Yeah, I got it." He gestured at the windows and doors, still hazy and dim with spells. "You, uh. You going to let me out?"

She smiled. "I like my privacy. It only keeps other out. You are free to go." Tentatively Giddy approached the door; when it gave, he left.

Dean tried not to squirm. "You know, all this magic crap that's being pulled out of nowhere is making me very uncomfortable right now."

"Why should that be?" Nurse Morgan turned to him. "It makes no difference when you can't see it."

He spread his hands. "Hey, I get it better than anyone that ignorance is bliss. My whole job back home is keeping civilians away from this stuff."

"And it is well appreciated by those who know." She nodded at his uniform. "Show me your amulet again, if you would."

He froze. "I already said it's not on the table. And I know you know it's not worth anything yet, even if I don't really know how." She stood watching him, her stance patient. Dean narrowed his eyes. "There's something off about you. You're older than you look."

Nurse Morgan smiled. "Oh, you charmer, you."

"No, I mean it. The way you were talking about the Great War…" He began to pace. "That was twenty-six years ago."

She shrugged. "Some trauma is too unspeakable. So many fought in that war. I could have known those men growing up."

"I don't buy it." He shook his head. "All that other stuff, the Eddas and Giddy's time on the tree. What are you?"

She opened her mouth, but held back. "You think I am a demon," she said, amused.

"Why not?" Dean planted his feet. "The Great War spewed up a whole bunch of them. Why not you?"

"Test me," she said. "Dash me with holy water. Speak the name of the Lord in my presence."

"Christo," he said instantly. She did not flinch.

"I am no more demonic than your companion, Dean." Nurse Morgan tilted her head. "I see he makes you nervous now, as I do. What will you do about that?"

"Answer my question first."

She nodded. "You're right, I am old. I have been here for a very long time, though not under the sun for much of it."

Dean blinked. "What, like a fairy?"

Nurse Morgan snorted. "Please." She folded her hands. "I came up here in 1914, true. The lives of Britons were being savaged, and I came to help. You know what I did for you, and for Sergeant Grant and Private Sisk. That art has been my preference, though I have studied many others." She approached him slowly, one foot in front of the other. "There is a catch, however. I cannot get home. No barrow will open for me. I left of my own free will, and there is something I need to be welcomed back."

"No. You can't have it." Dean clutched the amulet beneath his jacket. "It has to go home."

"I do not want it," she replied. "Though it is why I want you."

Dean laughed. "Look, I think you're a knockout and all, but I think I know what happens when guys like me get involved with, well…" He gestured. "Something like you."

"Dean, if I may." She looks up at him, clear-eyed and remorseless. "It takes a righteous man to agree to wear that pendant."

He scoffed. "I'm not righteous."

"If I come bearing the bier of a righteous man, I will be welcomed back among my folk." Dean's whole bearing faltered. She stepped back, still watching him. "You don't have to tell me," she said quietly. "I know how these things happen. If you agree to help me, though, I will ensure you are truly rewarded."

"What does that mean?" he asks, soft and somewhat strangled. "You want to kill me?"

"Why? That would make me a murderer. And we must fend off Wayland Smith first, and you the German force." She shook her head. "You already expect to die. Your contract on the amulet is completed on your death. That is why warriors sell themselves for these. And your family will be protected on its receipt?" Dean answered her with silence. "It does not have to be a vain loss," she pressed. "Great love deserves good turns."

"Does it?" he huffed, laughing. "Well, that's comforting. Come on, spit it out. Everyone gets something for nothing from me, so why not you?"

"Just your permission," she said, solemn now. "Should the event occur, that I might come for you."

He looked away, his shoulders tight. "And what happens to me, exactly?"

"What happened to Arthur?" She held her ground. "It's a good compact, Dean. It requires no more than you have already agreed to, and with greater benefit to more."

"That's it?" He crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm your ticket out? Is that how you look at me?"

Nurse Morgan lifted her eyebrows. "Your military requires you to sign a $10,000 life insurance policy before combat jumps. How do I differ?" She held up a hand. "Just think on it, if you would do me the courtesy. I will assume nothing." Something in the ward shifted: the dimness at the windows dissipated, and the room was mid-day bright as it should be. She offered up a smile. "I will, in fact, bid you a good Sunday. Do please keep in touch, though."

A doctor wandered in through one of the doors. He glanced at the rows of empty beds, puzzled. Nurse Morgan nodded to herself, then headed away. Dean watched them both, thoroughly unsettled, before he fled, cold lacing his whole body even under the summer sun.


	5. Free Until They Cut Me Down

**November 9, 1943  
Long Beach, California**

Calhoun's gramophone is playing a cheery jazz number when Dean comes in the front door. The Cove of the Extraordinary is deserted late on a Tuesday afternoon. Sam is nowhere in sight, not even at the back near Calhoun's office. It takes Dean ten minutes to find him near a collection of old-fashioned manual typewriters. He nods at Sam's empty hands. "What, no book today?"

Sam shakes his head. "Thanks for meeting me here."

Dean slips his hands into the pockets of his work jacket. "What's up?"

"You promise to keep this secret?"

Dean laughs. "Sam, what is this? Are you planning something?"

"Yeah. I am." Sam lowers his voice. "Look, do you think Dad's been gone a lot more lately?"

Dean frowns at Sam's seriousness. "He's got a second shift job at the base."

"That's not what I mean." He peers down the long aisle toward the back of the store. "Do you think Bobby has heard of this guy?"

"What, Calhoun?" Dean cants his head. "Sam, where are you going with this?"

Sam sets his jaw. "I think he's using Dad."

"What?"

"I think he's not as big as he wants us to think, and I think he knows Dad is good, so he's sending him out on dangerous jobs. Come on!" he insists at Dean's eyerolling. "Dad just got back from Bakersfield and now he wants him to go to San Diego. Doesn't he have anyone else who finds him stuff to sell?"

Dean snorts. "What are you saying, that Dad is doing his legwork so he can get all the credit? Dad said it himself, Calhoun's the big leagues. This is what that looks like."

Sam shakes his head. "Guys in the big leagues have big teams, Dean. We need to know for sure if he's worth the trouble. And I need you to back up me up when we tell Dad."

Dean sighs. "And assuming I agree to this, how do we pull that off?"

Sam shrugs. "We look at his stock."

Dean cocks an eyebrow. "You want to break into his storeroom?"

"Yeah, I do."

"You just want to see what he's hiding." Dean has to laugh again. "Sammy, this is not one of your brighter ideas."

"Five minutes, that's all it'll take." He smiles. "Come on, you're like Lamont Cranston, Dean. No one will even know we were there."

Dean pauses, and glances over his shoulder. The store is still quiet and empty. "Where is Roland anyway?"

"Meeting with Dad. He said they'd be going over some stuff. We're safe." Sam watches him. "Plus, yeah, I bet there is neat stuff in there."

Dean looks back at him, a little smug. "I am kind of Lamont Cranston with a sawed-off."

Sam grins. "Five minutes," he promises, and starts toward Calhoun's office.

Dean grabs Sam by the jacket. "Hey, on one condition: we drop this the minute it looks like trouble. Any time, you got that? That includes before we're in."

"I got it," says Sam, a touch defensive, and they head back together.

Dean keeps watch as Sam crouches in front of the lock. "Be careful," he murmurs. "Could be rigged on the other side."

"We're in," Sam hisses back. He cracks open the door, peers in, then gets to his feet. "We're good."

Dean pushes past him and slips in first. He stops and stares. The place is ceiling to floor with occult objects: it's like a ransacked museum. "Think you're wrong, pal," he says softly as Sam slides in behind him. "Looks like pretty big game to me."

Sam's eyes are wide as saucers as he ventures closer. "Holy shit." His breath fogs on a case labeled _Ensorcelled rope._

"Nose back," warns Dean. "Smudge marks are kind of a giveaway." Sam steps away, craning his neck. On top of a high cabinet sits a mask, mounted on a mahogany stand and fashioned entirely out of delicate crystal. Inside is row on row of tiny glass bottles, each powder, liquid or object within carefully identified.

"This is incredible," he says, somewhat humbled.

Dean smirks. "Yeah, and he wants Dad to get him this stuff. How's them apples?"

"All right," Sam concedes. "We can get out of here now."

One of the cases catches Dean's eye. "Hang on." The glass is spotless: underneath it lies a row of revolvers. He leans close. The guns are Colt-era, with an array of maker's marks. "Jesus," he breathes. "You think he'd have it?"

"Nobody has the Colt, Dean," says Sam. "He may be a big deal, but he's not that big a deal." He steps high to avoid a squat statue of a stylized bear. "Okay, seriously, I'm done now. Can we get out of here?"

Dean stays in a half-crouch in front of the revolvers. "I thought you said we were safe in here."

"Yeah, but not that safe." He pushes back his sleeve to check his watch. "I was wrong, this is stupid, I should have trusted Dad, okay? Can we go?"

Sam is hemmed in by another statue and the tall cabinet full of glass vials. He tries to negotiate the space, all elbows, knees and feet. "How you ever made it to fourteen I'll never know," Dean says, shaking his head.

The floorboards on the other side of the entrance creak. Sam and Dean both go still. A key scratches at the lock. The office isn't large, and has no other exits and no place to stay hidden long. "Shit!" hisses Dean, and yanks Sam away from his corner. Sam's arm flails out, smacking the tall cabinet. The bottles inside rattle and topple. The crystal mask wobbles on its stand for a long, agonizing instant, then pitches forward. It knocks Sam on the shoulder before it hurtles down and smashes all over Roland Calhoun's floor.

The door opens. Calhoun towers in the entrance, his knuckles white as he grips the handle. He takes in the corona of shattered crystal on the floor. Dean moves instantly between Calhoun and Sam. Quietly, Calhoun steps forward and shuts the door.

"Never mind that you have broken into my private office," Calhoun says, the rage in his voice silky and deathly still. "Do you have any idea what you've just cost me?"

"We're sorry," Sam blurts out. Dean can feel him trembling behind him. "It was my idea. It was dumb. I'm so sorry."

"Sam, shut up." Dean keeps his eyes on Calhoun. "We weren't here to steal anything. It was just to look, I promise."

"How reassuring." Calhoun nods at the shards on his floorboards. "It doesn't excuse your astounding foolishness. Your father, is he this reckless?"

"Fine. How much was that?" Dean swallows. "Look, we'll make it up to you."

"Movie studios could go broke doing as much." Calhoun's jaw tightens. "I was nursing a buyer for that mask too."

"What're you going to do?" Sam asks, his voice small.

"What are my options?" Calhoun spreads his fingers. "I will call the authorities. Your freedom is all that someone like you has to give." Dean's eyes widen, and Calhoun sees it. "Do you want to know why hunters come and work for me, Dean? It's because I can make them disappear. No more arrest warrants, no more official records, nothing. Not a trace. You see, I require full disclosure from all my business partners before I sign them on."

Dean hears Sam moan softly. "And what does that mean?" he asks, standing straighter to hide Sam.

Calhoun runs a finger along the lines of his palm. "I know there are warrants in five states for your father's arrest. I know that two of them are for aggravated homicide. I know that you're not welcome in Cape Girardeau for that unfortunate business with the Robinson family. I can bring any number of law enforcement agencies down on your heads and on the heads of everyone you know or who has sheltered you." He examines his hands. "Sam will be placed in a suitable home, of course."

Dean's face twists. "You leave him out of this," he snarls. "He's just a kid, he's never hurt anybody." Calhoun says nothing: he just observes. "Looks," says Dean, "you can set your terms, you can do whatever you like. I will get you your money, but you do not touch a hair on my brother's head, you hear me?"

For a minute, Calhoun doesn't answer. He makes no effort to hide how nakedly he's weighing his options. "Very well," he says at last. "Let's you and I make an accord. You're of age, I take it?"

"Dean—"

"Yeah," he interrupts, lowering his arm. Sam still doesn't move out from behind him.

"Excellent," says Calhoun. He nods. "Sam, if you'd give us the room."

"No," Sam says, his voice low and ragged.

"Scram, Sammy." Dean stands back, his heart pounding. "Wait for me outside."

"It's my fault," he insists, struggling against tears.

Dean glares at him. "Don't talk to anybody. Go."

Calhoun circles around them to his desk, which teems with neatly ordered papers and artifacts. Sam slinks out, furious and terrified. Dean knows he'll go no further than the door. He waits for what comes next, but Calhoun is taking his time.

"I want you to do something for me tomorrow," says Calhoun, taking a seat and pulling open some drawers. "I want you to go to the recruitment center first thing. And I want you to join the United States armed forces."

The knot in Dean's back dissolves, something chill and sharp taking its place. "What?"

Calhoun removes a small casket from the desk and sets it in front of him. He pushes back the lid and picks out an object on a black leather cord. "Tomorrow you will go to war," he says calmly. "And you will keep this on your person the whole time." He holds it out. Dean hangs back. It's a bronze pendant, a face with horns and a crown on it. His frown deepens. "That's it?"

"For the most part, yes." Calhoun leans forward. "It's a protection charm — or rather, it will be. It switches on, as it were, with the blood of a virtuous warrior."

The implication socks Dean hard in the gut. "You're asking me to go be cannon fodder," he says, hoarse.

"No." He arcs his eyebrows. "Mere cannon fodder will not do. I should insist that you join the paratroops. They are our nation's elite fighting force. And they earn an extra fifty dollars a month, I hear."

The Airborne begin their battles jumping out of planes. It's suicide on all sides. He gulps. "This is all you'll accept?"

"This is all that could recover my losses." Calhoun leans back in his seat. "Otherwise the reward money on you and your father will have to suffice."

Dean closes his eyes.

Calhoun sets the amulet on the desk and steeples his fingers. "The charm is bound to you when you prick your finger on the horns. From that moment on, you have one year to wear the amulet. If you should die in combat, then the protection is set and your debt is paid."

Dean takes a breath. "I could beat the war," he says, mustering up a smile. "What if I don't die?"

Calhoun's eyes glint. "Then you have defeated the Axis enemy, and you come home a war hero."

Dean doesn't look away. "And you won't pursue us?"

He shakes his head. "If you survive, I will do as I would otherwise: I will erase your family from public knowledge. The Winchesters will have never existed, and they can go on with their lives as they choose. Either way, though, the amulet comes back to me." He stays seated. "Those are my terms, Dean. What is your decision?"

Dean takes the amulet; it's cold and leaden in his palm. He stares at the bronze face, trying to divine its expression. The door is too thick to hear Sam behind it. A moment later he's squeezing his eyes shut and sucking the end of his thumb. Calhoun rises and holds out his hand.

"You have the thanks of a grateful American," he says, smiling. Dean shakes, his whole body numb. He slips the necklace over his head.

"Oh, and one other thing." Calhoun leans over his desk. "List me as your next of kin, in the event that your debt is paid. I will send your remaining effects to John." He reaches into his breast pocket. "My card, so you will not forget the address."

"What happened?" Sam asks as soon as Dean steps out the door. Nervously he eyes the amulet. "What is that?" He swallows, searching his face. "Dean?"

"Let's just get home," Dean says, his hand on Sam's back. "I don't want to talk about it."

 

**August 3, 1944  
Aldbourne, England**

Winters looked up from the diagram he'd sketched in the dirt. "Everyone know their job?" The men of Second Platoon nodded with a chorus of _Yes sir._ Winters rose to his feet. "Good. That was good today. Except for those few mistakes, but we can iron those out. Dismissed." He saluted the sergeants, and the platoon began to scatter.

"I can't wait to do all this for weeks on end with no showers," said Dean, scrubbing at the dirt packed on his elbows.

"Get ready for it," said Babe, leaning in. "I been hearing rumblings."

Dean looked at him. "Rumblings?"

"Yeah." Babe hitched his rifle back on his shoulder. "Nothing gets out of command, of course, but some guys who've seen it before are gettin' suspicious."

"It's nothing," said Giddy behind them. "There won't be a jump."

Babe turned and blinked at him. "Jesus, where'd you come from?"

Giddy clapped Dean on the shoulder. "Wait up a minute, would you? I'll be right back?" He pushed toward Winters without a backward glance.

"Weird friend you got there," Babe said. "What's he want?"

Winters looked up at the sound of his name. "Hey, Giddy, how are you?" he said as they saluted. Dean watched the two of them converse.

"I don't know," he said, "but you'd better go ahead. See you at dinner?"

"Yeah, okay." Babe swiped a muddy streak off his face with his sleeve and took off after the rest of the platoon. Dean stood by until Giddy and Winters parted.

"I gotta talk to you," Giddy said as he came back. "I was right. It's happening tomorrow."

Dean started walking with him. "How do you know?"

"I saw it. Dreamed it." He reached into a pocket and came up with a rumpled pack of cheap Woodbines. He tapped one out and glanced at Dean. "You smoke?" Dean shook his head, and Giddy smiled. "Yeah, me neither."

"So what is it?" he pressed as Giddy lit his cigarette.

"Don't know what to call it." Giddy's hand shook. "It came up from the ground, right in the middle of the house where he's quartered. It had teeth, though. And it was bigger than the house. I wouldn't want to see it."

"Jesus," said Dean, his mouth dry.

"Yeah." Giddy took a deep drag. "You know, it hasn't been that quiet, either. I know I told you not to worry, but…" He squinted off to the side. "There are owls. Snakes. All these little things happening. It'll be tomorrow."

Dean quickened his pace. "Giddy, how do we stop a thing with teeth that comes up from underground?"

Giddy said nothing for a moment. He studied the end of his cigarette. "You know, back in that hospital ward, the scariest thing I did all evening was turning back around again." He smiled a little. "I was so afraid to see what your face would be once you knew what I am now."

Dean fell silent. He kept his eyes on his boots. "Can you really do the things Nurse Morgan thinks you can?"

"Maybe," he said. "I really don't want to find out."

Dean thinned his mouth. "Think we're gonna have to."

Giddy quirked a rueful smile. "Yeah, I think so." He shook his head. "This whole thing, I don't know how to explain it. I'm still a Christian, I still believe in God, I'm still me. But now there's this other thing too. It doesn't feel like me. I don't know if it ever will. I don't know if I want it to. But if I let it, will it go away?"

Dean pushed his shoulders back. "I can't answer that, sorry."

"I know you can't." He sighed and tossed away the smoke. "Look, forget I said anything."

They tramped toward the barracks in silence. "Can I ask you something?" said Dean.

Giddy looked at him. "Go ahead."

"If you really can, you know…" He shrugged uncomfortably. "Take out battalions in a single bound, why wouldn't you? If it could end the war?"

"Because," said Giddy, with surprising vehemence, "I'm not in a fistfight alone with the whole German army."

Dean stopped. "What does that mean?"

Giddy turned. "Everyone is fighting this war. Everyone. We trained for two years together before we dropped in Normandy. If we don't earn that victory together, what are we? And it's no guarantee it ends anything. What do the Germans do if they think just one guy was all that kept them from winning?" He stopped himself, and took a deep breath. "Besides," he continued, more subdued, "I don't want the attention. It'll just attract a lot of trouble that I don't need."

Dean found himself struggling with his words. "You could help people, though, couldn't you? If there was trouble."

Giddy started walking again. "That'll take practice," he said quietly.

Dean set his eyes forward. "I guess it will." They came up on the barracks. Dean paused in front of his quarters. "Hey, what were you talking to Winters about back there?"

"Nothing important." He shrugged. "I dropped a charm in his pocket. It's not much, but it keeps him even a little safe and it's not wasted."

Dean dipped his head. "So, tomorrow?"

"Yeah," said Giddy. "Tomorrow."

 

   
**December 29, 1943  
Long Beach, California**

This is the first dinner they've had as a family in a solid week. They laid out place settings after clearing the table of guns. Sam is picking at his boiled mutton and peas, while Dad wolfs his serving down. Dean holds his fork in one hand, unable to move it. The amulet feels heavy on his neck; the points of its horns rest delicately against his skin. "I enlisted," he says, and Dad looks up, his mouth still full.

"Pardon?" he says, while Sam scowls at the tablecloth.

"I signed up," says Dean. "With the Airborne. I just got called up. They want me at the induction center tomorrow."

Dad swallows and sits back, still holding his silverware. "You lose a bet with someone?"

Dean shakes his head. "No, sir."

Dad grunts, then turns back to his meal. "This is our Christmas, Dean. We'll discuss this later."

"I'm not dodging," says Dean, gripping his fork. "I'm going." Sam slouches, his hair shielding his face.

Dad looks up again. Dean's clenching his jaw so tight his whole head hurts. "You're not," says Dad, his voice far too calm. "We've talked about this."

"You need me here, I know." He swallows. "But I have to."

Dad raises his eyebrows. "We have no fixed address, Dean, they weren't going to draft you."

He forces himself to speak clearly. "I went to them before they came for me."

Dad sets his knife down on his plate, staring at him. "I know you're not a moron. What is this about?" Dean looks away. "Dean," his father says, and it's an order.

"I'm protecting you and Sam." He can't look at either of them.

"Protecting us?" Dad gives a short, bitter laugh. "From what? From Hirohito? From Hitler?"

"Dad," ventures Sam.

"Shut up, Sam," snaps Dean, shooting him a warning look.

"No! You don't have to do this!" Sam yells. "We can go! We can hide! We're good at that!"

"Sam, that's enough." Dad leans on his forearms. "What's gotten into you?" he says, his voice quiet. "You think that war's more important than ours?"

"It's not like that," Dean tries.

"Dean, anyone can fight people," he says tightly. "You save more lives over here than you ever will on a battlefield."

"I can't talk about it. You wouldn't understand." He regrets it the moment his father's face changes.

"No, I guess I wouldn't," he says. "Too bad I learned nothing in the Somme and the Argonne and Verdun."

Dean's stomach roils. His face burns and his limbs shake. He gets up out of his chair. "Sit back down!" Dad barks, standing up. Dean knows that now is when the shouting begins. Sam braces himself but won't leave.

* * *

The house is storm-wrecked quiet. Dean picks through the room he shares with Sam. The bag he packed this morning is in the corner next to his bed. The floor creaks behind him. He doesn't even glance over his shoulder.

"You heard the man," he says softly. "If I'm out, I'm out." He hefts the bag onto his mattress. Sam pads behind him and waits in the gap between the two beds, unspeaking. "Don't worry about me," Dean continues, forcing his cheer. "I'll just show up at the station first thing. Twelve hours is nothing, I can keep myself busy no sweat."

Sam doesn't speak. His arms hang limply at his side. Dean stops digging through his bag. "Hey," he says. "We knew this was coming. No use pretending otherwise." He can't bear the look on his brother's face, though, and goes back to his things. "This is what's best, Sam. You can't think about it any more than that."

He pulls up the corner of his mattress. Two envelopes sit atop a pile of pulps and comics. He picks them up and examines them, then sets the letters on the bed. "I wrote these," he says, feeling useless in the glare of Sam's misery. "Make sure he gets his, will you?"

Sam's breath hitches. He tries to answer, but he has to settle for nodding. Dean tries to give him a reassuring smile, but lingering is more painful by the moment, so he slings his bag over his shoulder and starts toward the door.

"Come back," Sam blurts.

Dean pauses. He's never wanted to promise so badly in his life. He hopes Sam sees him nodding before he turns the corner and steals out through the back of the house. There can be no more harm done if he hasn't.

 

   
**August 4, 1944  
Aldbourne, England**

The full moon sat enthroned in a cloudless sky. Dean scanned the hollow, trying not to fidget. "You're sure he'll come?"

"He'll come," said Giddy, eyes fixed on the line of trees. "I've never summoned him before. He'll notice that. He'll come."

He shifted his weight. "If we knew where he was coming from, we could get that perimeter ready now."

"He'd see," said Giddy. "Wait for it. Nurse Morgan will do her job."

Dean glanced at him. "Should we still be calling her that?" Giddy didn't answer.

"There he is," he said. Dean followed his line of sight. A powerful figure leaning on a cane emerged from the copse in front of them.

"Well met, Corporal Orland!" Willand called. His enthusiasm flagged as he neared them. "And Private Winchester too," he said, still smiling. "I was not expecting you to join us. You look hale." He turned to Giddy. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this meeting?"

"What are you sending after Captain Winters?" he asked quietly.

Willand's teeth flashed beneath his beard. "You have seen it."

"I've seen what it does," said Giddy. "What is it?"

"It is a wyrm," said Willand, sounding pleased. "An incredible beast. Earth is like water to it. This one that I found is particularly hungry." Dean grimaced, and pressed his hand against his leg. Willand's attention fell on him. "Not armed?" he asked. Dean glowered and fell back a pace. Willand smiled. "I am reassured, though I will warn you, I am hard to harm."

Giddy nodded, almost as an afterthought. "I'm giving you one chance to call it back," he said.

Willand eyed him. "Or?"

Giddy thinned his lips. "You keep telling me what a weapon I am, Smith. I don't want to prove you right, but I will."

In every direction, branches rustled. Five soldiers emerged from hiding, Normandy vets, all of them unarmed. They came to a stop a dozen yards from the trio. Willand crooked a bushy eyebrow. "This is to stop me?"

Giddy nodded. "Yes."

A white glow flared out between each soldier, connecting one to the other. It faded quickly, resolving itself into a panorama of ghostly images. Troopers played out scenes on loop: in training, at pubs, running up a mountain, defending each other in combat. The dim pictures made no sound, and the men at each point seemed unaware of them. "These are my friends," said Giddy. "You're done harming them. You can't cross this line that they've made."

Willand regarded the barrier. "No," he conceded. "I cannot." He narrowed his eyes at Giddy. "They are quite calm, your brothers in arms. They agreed to this strange act willingly?"

"They'll forget in the morning." Giddy didn't flinch. "Call off your beast."

Willand clasped the top of his wooden cane. "Gideon, please allow me to tell you in the flesh how very proud I am of you in this moment. You will make a fine adversary to the German threat when you are called."

"He gave you a window," said Dean, stepping forward. "I suggest you take it. Make your dragon back off." He paused. "I don't believe I just said that," he muttered.

"And what do I gain from it?" Willand pointed at Giddy. "This man refuted my gifts and insulted my honor."

Dean shrugged. "How about not being a dick for starters?"

Willand turned to Giddy, ignoring Dean. "My offer stands as it first did," he said. "Your oath to honor what the Great Ash did for you and fight as you were made to do."

Giddy sighed and shook his head. "You don't get it, do you. That's not what I came here for." He raised his right hand. "I'm sorry."

Giddy's eyes slipped shut. He began murmuring words. They came slowly at first, then tripped off his tongue like native speech. Dean crooked his eyebrows at Willand. "Should have taken his offer, pal."

"If he demonstrates his might on me, I am satisfied." Willand lifted his chin. "No fear moves me."

"Fear is a means of survival," called a new voice from outside the ring of troops. Willand turned and peered through the glow. He began to chuckle.

"Gladys, on my life. Such a delight to see you here."

"Save your breath, Wayland," Nurse Morgan retorted, circling the perimeter. "We've little time for little lies now."

Giddy opened his eyes and lowered his hand. "Captain Winters is safe," he said, looking straight at Willand.

"I am glad of it," Willand said, bowing his head. His eyes brightened. "What has become of the wyrm?"

"It's on its way," said Giddy. "It's coming here for you."

The silence stretched. Willand's face grew wan under his beard. "What have you done?"

"'A sixth I know,'" said Giddy. "'When some thane would harm me, on his head alone shall light the ills of the curse he called upon mine.' I really should be carving it on a tree root, but I don't have that kind of time."

A flock of birds fled the copse, their calls troubled. Dean watched them uneasily. "Damn, that thing moves fast."

Beyond the line of men, mounds of dirt began to shift and rise. The troopers appeared to notice, but did not take fright. Nurse Morgan began her own stream of words; they sounded nothing like Giddy's.

"It's here," said Giddy. "And it's after you. What are we going to do about this?"

Willand's tongue flicked over his lips. "I am happy to be reasonable about this," he said. "But not with you. And not with her." He shot Nurse Morgan a nervous look as she worked to keep the wyrm at bay. "Dean Winchester, I will offer you a boon. I cannot deal with these others, but you are their companion and my love for you is my love for them. They've both crossed me, but you I may trust. You I will give a gift, if Corporal Orland will let me leave."

Dean glanced at Giddy, who nodded. "All right," he said. "What exactly constitutes a boon?"

Willand laughed. "Private, I am a god. I can grant many things. What would you like? An officer's commission? A woman?" He held up a finger. "Ah, but you could gain those on your own if you desired. I offer you greater goods. I can ensure that you live through this war, Private. I can get you home to your family again."

Dean stood silent at Giddy's side. His breathing became shallow. Willand dipped his head. "Perhaps you are like Corporal Orland, though. Perhaps you believe you should make it out on your own talents. Perhaps there is nothing you want for yourself. But there is nothing like a gift given, is that not so? I might bring a petition to another power and ensure it. You might restore your friend Gideon to his human state."

He began to prowl the space in front of them. "Think of it, for your comrade's sake. He would be free of the knowledge that plagues him now. He could be ordinary again: he could age and die again." Willand straightened. "Did you know that, Private? The gallows-gift is deathless. He is condemned to an eternity he did not choose. All this I could give you and your companions. I only ask that I be allowed to go free and unharried." He licked his lips again. "What is your word?"

A breeze ghosted over Dean's face. The sound of Nurse Morgan's spellwork and the wyrm's rumblings underground seemed muted. As the quiet grew, Giddy glanced over at him, brow knit. Dean's eyes were on the phantom men. "I want you to cut this bullshit out," he said, his voice steady. "You stop hassling Giddy, and you leave Easy Company alone. That's my boon."

Willand slumped, just slightly. "I agree to your terms," he said, resigned, and thumped his cane three times. "I stand before you finished. There will be no further satisfaction."

"Okay then." Giddy lifted his left hand and spoke again, closing a fist and lowering it to his waist. "It's off you," he said softly. "I could've done more. I didn't. And I won't." Outside, Nurse Morgan stopped as well. The lines of the protective circle flickered out. "You guys get out of here," said Giddy to the soldiers. "Go sleep this off." They nodded to him, looking incredulously at the group remaining, and headed out of the hollow back toward town.

Giddy turned to Willand. "One more thing." He looked over at Nurse Morgan, who stepped back and stood by Dean's side. The ground beneath began to rumble; muffled roars came closer and closer. All at once, an enormous head broke through the surface, showering them with dirt. It rose high above them on an endless serpentine neck, jaws open and crowded with teeth. The wyrm gave a piercing cry, and lunged straight for them. Willand stood transfixed; Dean squeezed his eyes shut.

Giddy watched it descend, until its breath was hot on their faces. He made a quick flick of his wrist, the movement too complex to track. The wyrm was thrown sideways, its bulk crashing to the ground. It lay still for a moment, throat pulsing. It withdrew, wheezing, and slipped back underground. Giddy turned to Willand in the new silence.

"I understand," said Willand. He bowed his head, first to Giddy, then to Dean and Gladys. "Good luck and long days to you all." He turned and hurried off, vanishing between dark trees.

"Holy shit," Dean said, drawing in a shaky breath. "Is it over?"

"Yes," said Nurse Morgan, still watching the wood.

"Holy shit," he said again, looking first at Giddy and then at Nurse Morgan. "You kept that thing away from us that whole time."

She turned to him. "I did."

Dean swallowed. "Okay. Yes."

Her eyebrows rose. "This is regarding our discussion?" Dean nodded. Nurse Morgan smiled. It illuminated her whole face, and Dean's heart caught in his throat. She reached for his hands and clasped them. "I thank you for it." She looked to Giddy, beaming. "I am pleased with tonight. You both did very well."

"I can't believe that happened," Giddy marveled. "That happened just like you said it would."

Nurse Morgan's smile took on an edge. "Gods are simple. They are easy to predict. It is people who cause the real trouble." She slipped her hands out of Dean's. "You both had a victory tonight. Wayland Smith will be no more trouble here." She looked to them both. "I ask your pardon, but I am due at the hospital. Some men can wait, but not all."

"Thank you," said Giddy, his earnestness quiet.

She dipped her chin. "You are most welcome."

Dean and Giddy watched her go. "I think we did the right thing here," said Giddy. Dean didn't answer. Giddy looked at him. "You don't think so?"

"No, no, I do." He swiped his palm over his face. "I still don't like that dream-state stuff, but those guys can't remember this. It was the best we could." He exhaled slowly. "I dunno, I guess I wasn't expecting some of that stuff he said."

"Look, it's done," said Giddy. "You just move forward and do your job." He glanced at Dean, who mustered up a smile, which faltered a moment later.

"You really are done with all that, right? I have to tell you, that shit was scary."

Giddy dropped his eyes. "You're telling me." Neither of them spoke. Giddy slipped his hands in his jacket pockets. A moment later, a smile flickered across his face. "Come on, enough of this crap. I am done. Let's get out of here."

"Hell yes," said Dean, and they left the empty ground behind.


	6. Free Until They Cut Me Down

**February 18, 1944  
Fort Benning, Georgia**

The Bama Club has it all: a band, a bar, a bevy of singing girls. Every would-be paratrooper worth his salt makes it out here on weekends. No one wants to wash out, not least because it means a one-way ticket to some regular infantry unit already in combat, but this place is its own motivation. What's not to love about a hot jitterbug floor and a town full of girls whose boys have already left them behind?

Dean has a hard time attracting anyone to the pool table. Everyone's too busy cheering a lanky redhead who dances like he was born to Lindy Hop. The band is barely audible over the crowd. Dean gives up and retreats to the bar. He's not shy about nursing beer after beer by himself. He's been here before. The only difference is that he's alone, and everyone's in uniform.

He's been with these guys a week now and he still doesn't give a shit about them. Everyone swaps stories about why they signed up, how they were motivated by patriotic duty or extra jump pay or a girl told them to do it. Dean makes up a different story every time it comes up, and no one seems to notice. Jump school is a bigger bust than basic training. Drills, rifle range, guard duty, latrine duty, PT, KP, mess duty, classes, officers, grooming standards — he was sick of it coming in. He could be out on a hunt right now. He could go looking for one if he thought he could sneak far enough off the base.

If the drink made him honest with himself, he'd admit that the hustle felt like coming home. This kid from Maine, Hashey, he's eating it right up. There isn't that much money at stake, but what's he going to spend it on besides beer?

"All right, all right," he says, slurring just enough. "Lemme just set up this one shot. It's in the hole for you, but hey, we gotta make the gesture, right?"

"Sure," says Hashey, leaning on his cue and grinning. Dean circles the table, eyeballing his approach. It's a good spread for him. This is kid's stuff. It'd be better as a two-man con, but what's the other option? He bends over and lines up his sights.

The redhead from the dance floor crashes against the table. The balls scatter and the few guys watching groan and harangue him. Dean glares at the other private. "Jesus Christ, you weren't that clumsy an hour ago."

The guy offers the audience a sheepish grin. "Sorry, fellas, this fuckin' galoot back there knocked right into me. He better hope they give him two parachutes, you know?" He points at the table and looks at Hashey. "This your game?"

"Yeah," says Hashey, brow furrowed. The redhead claps him on the back.

"Congratulations, you were gonna win. Here, other guy, lemme buy you a beer. Sorry for blowing your chances, huh?" He takes Dean around the shoulders and guides him away from the table. He lets go before Dean can shrug him off and frowns at him. "Listen, pal, you ever heard the phrase 'don't shit where you eat'?"

Dean glares back at him. "Is 'mind your own beeswax' beyond you, buddy?"

"Hey, I'm doin' you a favor." He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. "You gotta live with these guys, you don't go tryin' to steal money from 'em. They're supposed to keep you alive when there's guns firing."

Dean shakes his head and looks the other way. "Whatever. I'm just putting my time in until I'm done."

The redhead snorts. "Ain't that the truth. So what, you're gonna piss it away? 'Cause me, I'd rather have fun with it." Dean eyes him. The guy sticks out his hand. His cheer is implacable. "Babe Heffron, South Philly. Where you from?"

Dean smirks. "Babe?"

He grins, unperturbed. "Helps the broads remember my name, that's for certain. Come on, pal, no secrets here."

Dean hesitates, and takes a look at the rest of the bar. It's a fun joint. Everybody finds someone to talk to. "Winchester," he says, and takes Babe's hand. "Dean Winchester."

Babe nods firmly. "Well, Winchester, you stick with me, maybe we'll make somethin' of you, yeah?" A fresh smile cracks his face. "Come on, have a damn beer. I know you ain't as cheery as you're pretending."

He isn't. Maybe he could be.

 

   
**August 5, 1944  
Aldbourne, England**

Odin All-father was a trickster. Wayland Smith berated himself for losing sight of that. The walk back to his forge was laborious, but he accepted his penance. The gallows-gift bested him tonight. But he would continue.

He knew the instant he set foot in his forge that he was not alone. "Hello?" he called, scanning the darkness. "Who's there?"

The electric light switched on. Gladys stood in the middle of the floor, her hands folded at her waist. He sighed. "If you are here to gloat, 'Nurse Morgan,' it is ill-mannered, but not unexpected."

"I come to do no such thing," she said calmly.

Wayland huffed. "Then what is your business? I am worn. You know the night I've just had." He began to shuffle toward the door to his quarters. She did not move out of his way.

"It was I who took down your lamia, Wayland." He stopped; their eyes met. His mouth thinned.

"I already know you were healing the boys. The gesture is appreciated, but I would have arranged for it myself. I would not have killed them."

She held up a hand to block him. "This whole business, it is not what your kind do."

"As has been proved to me." He nudged her arm with his cane. "Let me through."

Gladys fixed him with a look. "You are a god, Wayland, if you remember. You serve the humans. You don't goad them or threaten their kith. Leave that to the monsters."

He made a short bow from the waist. "I thank you for your wisdom, sorceress, but as I have told you, I am retiring."

"That's true. You are." Her expression did not change. "A dog or a horse is put down when it becomes a danger to those around it. You should know, Wayland, that I will not suffer these people to be harmed."

He stopped. "No," he said, disbelieving. "Gideon saw me off. The thing is done."

"Gideon is learning," she said. "We are both old, and I know better."

His eyes widened as she made a sign and lifted her hand. "Surely there is no call—"

Gladys touched her thumb to her ring finger and wrenched her wrist to the side. A thrush tumbled in midair where he stood. Gladys narrowed her eyes and made a swift gesture away from her. The thrush hurtled through the air and collided with the stone wall of the forge. She heard all of its bones breaking before it toppled to a work table and lay still.

She walked over to the table and surveyed the dead bird with professional disdain. "Come back better," she said, and walked out of the empty forge. The lights switched off behind her.

 

   
**October 5, 1944  
Nijmegen, Holland**

Giddy sees the explosion from the top of the dike. Three men go down with the German grenade. Lesniewski stands up, yanks the grenades off his jacket and hurls them one after another across the road. They detonate all at once, and Giddy has to bellow over the enemy's screams. "Lesniewski, get back here! Help Alley, he's hit! Liebgott! Winchester!" He scrabbles down the slope. Liebgott pushes himself upright, blood streaming from a gash on his neck. Alley is peppered with holes all over. Dean doesn't move.

"Joe, you all right?" Giddy slides to his knees and props Liebgott up.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," he grunts. "Gimme a fuckin' bandage."

Giddy hands him his first aid kit and heads over to Alley. "Jesus," says Lesniewski, trying to staunch Alley's wounds. His whole left side is a mess, but Alley's eyes are fluttering, and he's trying to ask what happened. Across the dike the cries of the Germans retreat into the darkness. The patrol is alone again.

"Get him back to headquarters," says Giddy, patting Lesniewski on the shoulder. "Moe, you're gonna be all right."

"Winchester?" asks Liebgott, tying off his bandage.

Giddy shakes his head. "I got him." He makes a small gesture with his right hand. A ghostly double of himself hurries ahead of them.

"Come on, let's move, let's move!" it urges.

The two able men don't hesitate: they heft Alley off the ground and haul him back toward the outpost. Giddy watches them, queasy at the deception. He looks down at Dean, supine and bloody in the grass. "Shit," he sighs, and crouches down beside him. Whatever blasted Alley on the side caught Dean full in the chest. His torso is full of shrapnel, but his face is oddly intact.

"I'm sorry, buddy," Giddy says. He feels around Dean's neck for chains and cords; when he finds them, he pulls. The dog tags are bent and still hot from the explosion. He snaps off the second set and pockets them. The amulet he has to fish out, but there it is, wet but unharmed. He wipes it with his thumb and studies the blank bronze face crowned with horns.

"It worked," says a voice above him. Giddy looks up. Nurse Morgan picks her way down from the road, wrapped in an ankle-length wool coat. She lowers herself to the ground at Dean's head, gloved hands on her knees. "The charm is very powerful now."

Giddy cups the thing in his palm. "It'll really keep somebody safe, huh?"

"The injury must be grave beyond measure for this to let its bearer die." She reaches forward and shuts Dean's eyes. "It will fetch a fortune."

He watches her, grimacing. "This is it?" he says. "This was what he agreed to that night?"

Nurse Morgan lifts beneath Dean's shoulders and positions herself so his head rests in his lap. "You should leave, Gideon. Your men will wonder."

Giddy stands up, uncertain. "Will he be okay?"

"Yes." She raises her eyes to him. "Your men, Gideon. Go."

He takes a step backwards, then another. Up the road, German guns begin sounding again. He slips the amulet into a breast pocket and secures the button. "Don't keep that," Gladys warns. "Graves and Registration will send it where it should go."

Giddy nods, and turns to chase the patrol back to headquarters. When he's gone a few yards he glances over his shoulder. The dike is empty, though the tall, stiff grass is dented and red.

*

December 26, 1943

Dear Dad,

I'll be surprised if you read this letter right away. I know you're mad at me, and you've got every right to be. I disobeyed your order, but believe me when I tell you I'm doing this to keep you and Sam safe. There's something big hanging over us all, but I'm fighting it. If I make it out of this, I can tell you all this myself, but if I don't, I want to think you know the important things. I know you do. You taught me all that's worth knowing, above all that family is everything. I keep that with me every day thanks to you. Don't be too hard on Sam while I'm gone, and don't be hard on yourself. Look after each other.

Your son, Dean

*

December 29, 1943

Dear Sam,

You know everything I'm going to say. You and Dad know me better than anybody. I don't want you blaming yourself for this. Just keep going. I know how tough you are, and I know you're going to be fine.

This is the last letter you'll get from me. Given what's ahead, it just seems better to make a clean break. It'll be easier on you. That doesn't mean I won't be thinking about you and Dad every day. Don't ever think I've forgotten you, because that's not true and I'll kick your ass for it.

I don't think I'll ever be able to say everything I want to tell you. But make sure you and Dad don't kill each other, and take care of that car, all right? Things are going to be better after this. Everybody can start again.

Don't go looking to get me out of this. I made this deal on my own and I'm going to go through with it. Just go and live your life. I'll take care of the rest.

Your brother, Dean

END

**Author's Note:**

> [Click for thanks, author's notes and footage from _Band of Brothers._](http://newredshoes.livejournal.com/882802.html)


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